Walk Away
by Lynzee005
Summary: For Detective Stabler, the adage "to serve and protect" is more than a saying; it's why he does what he does. This is why, when a victim dealing with the fallout of her ordeal appeals to him for help, he can't turn his back. He doesn't get to choose. It's in his veins. It's who he is...
1. Fantasy

_A/N: _**_This chapter (and a few more to come) are suggestive in places and not for the faint-of-heart. _**_I tried to be respectful but factual about the psychological effects of sexual assault. It was not easy to write some of this; it probably won't be easy to read at times, either. But I hope you'll enjoy it as much as you can._

_Big thanks to Bob Rhynoplasty for her help in beta-ing this story! Much love, mi amica :)_

* * *

**Wednesday, May 17**

**10:40 pm**

Audrey was already drunk enough to dull the pain, and she knew it, so before her hand clasped the cold, slim neck of what _could_ have been her fourth bottle of imported beer—the strong, 10% alcohol stuff—she backed away from the refrigerator and shut the door, a little unsteady on her feet, but no worse for wear.

Instead, she traipsed into the living room and sank deep into the folds of her sofa and the warm blanket she'd left behind minutes before. Wrapping it around her shoulders, she winced in pain, having forgotten for just a moment how broken she was. Her wrists and ankles still bore the ligature marks, angry red welts where her attacker had bound her to the bed. For an entire week. Kept in the dark. Bound, gagged.

Brutally raped.

She took little comfort in the fact that she would be the last in a long line of victims claimed by the worst serial rapist & murderer the city of New York had seen in a decade or more. What he'd done to her was seared in her brain, and etched on her skin.

She kept the lights off. She didn't want to be reminded.

Sitting in the dark, Audrey watched headlights on the stifling street two stories down out her living room window. The same thing she'd done the night before—her first night home since her abduction the previous Sunday—except last night she'd had company.

They wouldn't let her leave the hospital without someone to at least escort her home, but she had no one. So the detective handling her case had offered, not only accompanying her back to her one-bedroom in the Village but staying with her until she fell asleep. Sometime between her slumber and the humid dawn, he'd gone home; but he left his card with a hastily-scrawled message for her to call him, anytime, if she needed anything.

He'd stayed by her side at the hospital through a battery of tests and examinations. He held her hand while they collected evidence. Were all New York City detectives like this, or just this guy? It didn't matter. She had never really asked him to stay, but he'd come to her aid so unselfishly anyway. Nobody had ever done anything like that for her.

Audrey's head swam. He'd been the one to find her, barging through the barricaded door of the should-be-condemned apartment building and—while his partner and their backup chased down the bastard who had fled through the open window—kneeling at her bedside, releasing her bonds, and hauling her battered body against his with such a heady mix of ferocity and tenderness that she momentarily forgot how to breathe, pressed as she was against his chest, her arms slung around his broad shoulders, holding on for dear life.

The thought made her stomach swirl and whirl and bury itself deep within her core, settling between her legs.

In the darkness, she slid her hand beneath the elastic waistband of her favourite pink-and-yellow striped pyjama pants and dip between her thin cotton panties and the soft flesh of her lower abdomen while her inebriated mind wheeled.

_She hears something on the stairs; shouting, footsteps. She struggles against the ropes lashing her to the bedframe. The door opens. He crashes in - crosses the room in two strides, cups her face with one hand, calling her name as he slides beneath the stained rag gagging her and lifts it from her mouth. She nods—confirming that she is who he thinks she is—and his fingers make quick work of the knots at her wrists and ankles. She weeps. He lifts her. Carries her down three flights of stairs. Wraps her in blankets in the back of a squad car while he calls for an ambulance. _

Her fingers traced lazy drunken circles in the short tufts of hair between her legs. She closed her eyes and thought deeper.

_Later. He drives her home. Walks her to the door. She presses her key into the lock, her hands shaking, so he turns the key. The tumbler falls heavy into its slot, and the door swings open. She puts down her things, turns to say goodbye. Even in the dark, his eyes are pure lust. "Need anything else?" he asks, and she nods. "I want to feel. Anything but this." And he knows what she needs. He closes the door with his foot and takes her in his arms, crashing his mouth against hers._

She threaded a finger between her folds and stroked, throwing her head back against the cushions. She was sore, still, and _this_ reminded her of _that_, but she couldn't help it.

_He carries her to the bedroom and stretches her out on the bed. Clothes disappear. He hovers over her, his face intense and filled with concern. She fights her fear. He strokes her hair. "Are you sure?" he asks. She nods. He kisses her, fills her first with his fingers, and she gasps out loud..._

Tears stung Audrey's eyes. One finger landed on her clitoris. It hurt—she was torn and bruised six ways to Sunday—and she cried out into the darkness but wouldn't—_couldn't_—stop.

_He kisses her hard. Tongues the gap between her front teeth. Draws her lower lip into his mouth. Fingers move slowly. Carefully. She looks him in the eye. He asks what she wants. Faster. Harder. He complies, pulls his hand away. She forgets for a moment that it was ever anything but this. He clasps her to his chest and thrusts._

Hot tears squeezed out between her tightly-pressed lashes, collecting in the hollow of her collarbone. She furiously pumped her hand, alternately rubbing and slapping; her other hand fisted the blanket at her side. It hurt so much. She bit her lip and tasted blood.

_Short, hard drives bury him to the hilt. He groans his pleasure into her ear. "Come for me, baby," he snarls. The face she sees when she looks up at him transforms. Smooth skin turns stubbled; kind eyes, menacing._

Audrey's eyes snapped open; her hand stilled. It hadn't been the plan—she didn't want to see her rapist's face hovering above hers. That wasn't what this was about. She fought a wave of nausea and clamped her free hand over her mouth. _Sick, sick, sick, _she repeated as she shook her head and felt the swell of excitement fade away.

_Bastard!_

She needed what she was striving for, and as if he hadn't done enough, he was taking this from her too. Desperate to push his face from her reverie, she concentrated on what she remembered about the other man, the man with the big hands, the warm arms, the blue eyes. Pushed herself to remember the sound of his voice as she picked up her previous pace.

"_Come for me," he mouthes, whisper-soft, against her cheek. She struggles to breathe. Pressure builds. She bears down, focusing below her belly button. Sweat clings to her brow and stands up on his shoulders. He dips his head and sucks at the juncture of her neck and shoulder. She comes undone, cries his name, and he empties himself within her._

Audrey wailed. She pinched and twisted. But nothing happened. Unbearable pressure had built up; she was just waiting to go off. But _nothing_ _happened_. Her tears ran free with the fury of her frustration, and when she finally pulled her hand out of her pants, there was blood on her fingertips. She waited, sobbing, ashamed, until her heart slowed, until the room around her came into sharp focus, until she regained feeling and control of her legs. Then she pushed herself up off the couch and hobbled to the bathroom.

With the light on but avoiding the mirror, she washed the blood from her fingers, watched as it dripped in diluted shades of pink and swirled down the drain. Her wrists were purple; a scab ran underneath her left thumb. For a moment she saw red behind her eyelids. She steeled herself against the porcelain bowl.

She splashed water on her face and glanced up. Bruises marred her skin - one on this cheekbone, another on this side of her jaw. Four stitches in the hairline above her right eye. She swept her dark bangs to the side but they didn't cover it, not by a long shot. He broke her aquiline nose, the long line from brow to tip now crooked a third of the way down. She would never look the same.

Dashing the light, she padded, unsteady on her feet, back to the sofa. His card was on the low table in front of her, illuminated by a moonbeam. She picked it up, fingering the heavy card-stock, the raised lettering of his name, the ten digits of his phone number. For a moment, she eyed the phone and considered calling him.

Instead, Audrey walked back to the fridge. Her hand clasped the cold, slim neck of what will _now_ be her fourth bottle of imported beer. She couldn't feel anything and yet she feels _everything—_physical pain, staggering fear, the heavy throb of unfulfilled desire squatting next to a rapist's handiwork deep within the delicate walls of her vaginal canal.

Most of all, shame. Because the kind-hearted, strong-bodied detective who'd shown her so much warmth and compassion—who'd saved her life—would never have laid a hand on her, even if she'd begged him to. She knew that he wouldn't have—he was a police officer after all, and hadn't he mentioned he was Catholic, and wasn't that a wedding band on his left ring finger? He never would. Never.

But why, then, did she _wish that he would?_


	2. Boiling Over

**Thursday, May 18  
****12:07 pm**

Elliot jabbed a few fingers against his temple in a futile attempt to quell the headache that had been brewing behind his eyes for the last few hours. Whether it had sprung from the oppressive heat or the paperwork, he didn't know. But as his hand was cramped around the pen in his grasp and a bead of sweat trickled into his eye, he seemed to lose it. All he had to do was make it to the end of the document. It wasn't going to happen.

"Didn't we pay our electric bill last month?" he barked, loosening his tie and wiping sweat off his brow. "Or are we using the interrogation rooms as backup morgue incinerators?"

"El," Olivia called over from her desk.

"Has nobody here heard of air conditioning?" he muttered before directing his attention to his partner; she dropped the phone she'd been holding onto its cradle, where it landed with a tinny crash. "What?" he asked, more annoyed than concerned.

"Looks like Donovan Krauss is talking."

Elliot didn't dignify the statement with a response.

"He says he'll lead us to four more bodies and plead guilty on all counts," Olivia said.

"In exchange for what?" Elliot bristled.

Olivia shrugged. "He won't say any more about it, but I guarantee the bastard's done more than sightsee in his travels—he's lived in Pennsylvania, Maryland, Florida… ."

_Death penalty states, _Elliot thought as his headache amped up a notch. He winced and shook his head. "If he thinks cooperation with us now will exempt him from extradition later, he clearly knows jack about the Federal Bureau of Investigations," he said.

Oliva huffed.

Elliot settled back in his chair with a heavy sigh, his body relaxing for an ever-so-brief moment of respite. "Look," he breathed, "I don't like the Feds on our turf any more than you do, but if they asked, I'd lead them straight to Donovan's cell myself."

"That's awfully amenable," Olivia flashed a lopsided grin at him.

Elliot didn't see it as an olive branch to the FBI. All he had to do was close his eyes and he could recall the specifics of the case - the smell of the room; the sight of her battered body; the sound of her fearful cries - and his blood would pound against his eardrums. He wanted the son of a bitch to go down hard.

"Call it whatever you want, Liv," he said. He knew, from the slow rhythm of Olivia's head as she nodded up and down, that she understood his subtext.

She cleared her throat. "Regardless, Casey knows we've got four families waiting to exhale, and a chance to help them bury their daughters," Olivia replied. "Whatever his motives, at least some good might come from it."

Elliot's derisive snort was retort enough. "Yeah," he sighed again and stood up to his full height, stretching his stiff calf muscles and cracking the length of his spine in the process. "Well, at least if he's pleading guilty it'll spare Audrey a lengthy trial."

Olivia nodded. "How's she doing, anyway?"

"The same as all the others. Traumatized, scared, angry," he counted off the symptoms as if they were components in a list of his favourite foods. "And the worst part is there's nothing more we can do."

He knew Olivia well enough to guess that her silence was as much a space for him to elaborate as it was an answer to his question. "Do you know if she's seen someone yet?" she finally spoke.

He shook his head. "I doubt it. She was pretty adamant that she didn't need therapy. Said she had medical coverage through her work she could use later on, but I don't think that's true."

"Didn't you—?"

"Liv," he said, standing up as he rolled an errant sleeve cuff up to his elbow. "We can only push them so far. At some point, they have to be able to help themselves."

Olivia raised her eyebrows at him, and for the first time in many months, Elliot felt conspicuous. Obvious. Olivia had that power over him. She just knew when he was full of shit. And he certainly was that now, because he said the words but didn't, for a moment, believe them. Elliot Stabler could never wash his hands of a case. He carried them all, and he knew he always would. It was the reason he fought so hard. It was why Kathy had taken the kids and moved out.

Yes, Elliot would have moved mountains to ensure that, in this case as in all the others, Audrey Middleton saw justice served. But when it actually came down to it, he found he had precious little to actually offer the young woman. _That_ was the truth. He'd given too much, and now, duty-bound to give again, he had nothing. Nothing to give. Nothing for himself.

Olivia didn't let on. She glanced at her hands and then back at Elliot, and even though he knew that she knew, she didn't say a word.

Elliot changed the subject. "Hungry?"

"Sure. You?"

"I could eat."

She stood up and pushed her chair in, "Maybe we should stop in at Audrey's. Tell her about the trial?"

Elliot nodded, his spirits buoyed by the thought of actually being able to deliver good news to a victim for once.

"Lead the way," he said, and they left the squad room.


	3. Employer of the Month

_A/N: Warning for more graphic scenes toward the end of the chapter._

* * *

**Thursday, May 18  
****1:50 pm**

Audrey blearily rubbed her eyes and trudged to the heavy door. Wrapping her thin housecoat tightly around her body, she pressed a hand to the frame and peered through the peephole.

The face she saw, connected to the fidgeting body of her boss, made her stomach tense. Jack Levy wasn't the kind of guy anyone really wanted around at the best of times, and these were certainly not the best of times.

Audrey sighed and closed her eyes, wondering if she'd be able to pretend she wasn't home. He hadn't buzzed, after all; he would have no idea.

"Open the door, Audrey," he said, willing his somewhat nasal tenor to sound commanding. She heard him clear his throat. "I can see your shadow under the door."

Audrey glanced down at her bare feet. _Shit_, she thought. Sighing deeply, she unlatched the lock and pulled on the handle.

"Where the hell have you been?" he interrogated as he charged in.

"Jack, I-I'm—."

He took one look at her, head to toe and back again, and the fire in his eyes disappeared. "Jesus…," he breathed. "What the hell happened to you?"

Audrey touched her hair. "What do you mean?"

Jack—arms akimbo, his black Atari t-shirt a mismatch to the navy blue blazer he wore over it—pushed his thick glasses up on his nose and lifted one hand to run through his hair. "You look… I mean," he nodded, cleared his throat again, and tried a different tack. "You missed over a week of work, just dropped off the map."

"I was…," she stopped, considering. Jack was her boss, sure, and he had been extremely generous to her since she started working with him. _Too generous, maybe_, she thought to herself. His attentions verged on stalkerish from time to time; for that reason, she knew, she hesitated before she said anything.

But the words tumbled out anyway, from another part of herself. "I was in the hospital." She heard her own voice as though listening to it through water.

Jack was aghast. "What? Why didn't you call? What happened?"

Audrey broke away gently and forced a smile. "Nothing to say," she replied. "It was fine. Really. I'm fine."

She wasn't sure if the words would find purchase, but he seemed to accept them. "Are you sure?" He reached a hand out to touch the side of her face, the tender and cracked ridge of her nose, and lifted an eyebrow. "I was scared for you."

"I had no idea… ."

"Just because you work from home, what, that means nobody oughta miss you?"

She shook her head. "I'm sorry," she said. "Are you mad?"

"I was, at first. You weren't answering your phone, and you stopped emailing in. I almost made up your pink slip. But… ."

"I'm real sorry, Mr. Levy."

His awkward attempt at consolation—smoothing his hands up and down the length of her arms and then giving her a gentle but firm pat to the shoulder—would have been comical at any other time. "It's fine. You're not fired," he said, hauling two thick, padded manila envelopes she hadn't noticed he was carrying out from under his arm. "But—and I mean this: when you're up for it!—I would like you to have first crack at these. One is a restaurant website, the other is for a bookstore."

Audrey took the folders and pretended to study the company information they contained. But she wasn't thinking about page layouts, copy, search engine optimization, or anything else she'd learned in her studies. She could feel the heat of Jack's body, his closeness closing in on her. He wasn't a threat, not really. And yet she had to fight to hide her trembling hands beneath the heavy bundles in her hands, thinking about all the things he could do to her if he wanted to… .

Audrey clutched the folders to her chest and nodded, brushing her hair behind her ears. "Okay," she stammered. "Will do."

"Good," he said, again patting Audrey on the arm. "Are you sure you're okay?"

She nodded, putting so much effort into making it look effort-less that she thought her neck would snap. "Absolutely. I'm fine. Thanks for stopping in."

Jack's face remained creased with worry, but he nodded and took her at her word. "Don't mention it," he said. In a moment, he was gone, and Audrey was closing the door behind him with a tremendous sigh, before breaking down in tears.

Before "The Incident"—Audrey's penchant for euphemism had once been just a quaint quirk leftover from a small-town upbringing, but even in her own thoughts now, she couldn't admit to herself that she'd been raped—she had loved her job. Getting paid to sit at home and design websites seemed like a dream come true. But minimal interaction with other staff members at the fledgling web development company meant that she hadn't had the time to develop any deep, personal relationships with anyone. It had bothered her at first, but the solitude seemed to fill a void she wasn't aware she had, and she had grown to enjoy it.

Now, the last thing she wanted to do was force herself to write showy descriptions of restaurants she knew nothing about, sitting alone in her dimly lit living room. Pre-Incident Audrey might have taken the folders to any of the hundreds of coffee houses or resto-cafes within walking distance of her apartment. Since she'd been home the farthest she'd been outside her building was to the mini mart two doors down.

She wondered what Jack would have said if she'd told him the truth about what had happened. Or if he suspected she wasn't being entirely honest. But the more she thought, the more indignant she became. She'd already had enough taken away from her; the choice about who to let into her personal life was still hers.

It still left her with two heavy client files in her arm and the exact opposite of giddy enthusiasm to dive into them brewing in her heart. Dropping the envelopes onto the sofa, Audrey made up her mind to take another shower, her third already that day. She kept the light off in the bathroom, flooding it with reflected light from the hallway and the open living room windows instead while she peeled away her clothes: taking out her cellphone from the housecoat pocket and setting it next to her toothbrush, then tossing her robe, the old college t-shirt, and the striped pyjama bottoms to the floor between the toilet and the tub. Her panties—reddish-brown where her blood had dried from the night before—went into the sink. With the water running full blast and the room filling with steam, Audrey stepped into the enclosure and let the too-hot water scald her skin.

Audrey had always rather enjoyed being naked, but she hated her body now. It was still bruised and sore; it had betrayed her numerous times during her captivity.

Her mind was still prisoner, and every time she closed her eyes, she was gone. It was why she hadn't slept soundly since the night Detective Stabler had been there. Closing her eyes and forcing her face under the spray, she was back on the bed, her hands tied tightly to a slat in the headboard, while her captor began his assault, first with his hands, his dirty fingers, and then… .

Audrey released the fist she'd made; her nails had marked her palm with deep red half-moons, and the heat of the water made the angry indentations burn. She flexed her fingers and rubbed her hands together before pressing them to the cool tile surrounding her. The hot water seared down her body, splashing around her toes and flowing down the drain.

Audrey was so tired, and she had no fight left in her. Closing her eyes once more, she allowed herself to go where her mind wanted her to go.

_There. On the bed. Struggling to move. She knows the sound of his shoes on the floor, the pacing of his gait, as he approaches the rusted bed frame, the dirty mattress, his captive prize. He calls her Funny Face, which means he knows her name and enough about Audrey Hepburn to think he's being clever. She shuts her eyes; sunlight from the window colours the inside of her eyelids crimson. His shadow crosses her face._

Audrey couldn't help it as her breath quickened. She rested her head against the tile, too, exposing her throat to the water.

_She keeps her eyes closed and feels him on top of her. His skin is warm; her skin is crawling. He runs a hand from her thigh up along the rise of her hip and cups the underside of her breast, first through her t-shirt and then underneath it, against her skin. She tries to roll away. Her bindings cut into her wrist. He pushes down on her, breathes against her cheek, kisses the bridge of her broken nose._

_He tells her to open her eyes. She refuses. He pulls her hair. She cries. He pushes a finger deep within her, and the pain stops her tears. Her eyes squeeze shut even tighter now. A second finger. She tries to scream, but when he moves his digits, buried deep, she begins to squirm… ._

Audrey didn't have to touch herself to feel the pressure beginning to build. She pushed her hands even harder against the tile, her mouth slack, hot water filling and draining from the corner of her lips.

_The more she struggles to get away, the more insistent his strokes become, until she's frantic and screaming against the gag and he's grunting under the force of his own strength. Resistance amounts to nothing; even through the pain, she feels pleasure. The telltale sign that her body is deserting her. _

_He flicks his thumb where it hurts the most, and she's seconds away from unhinging. Through clenched teeth, he orders her to open her eyes, to look at him. She shakes her head. He won't ask again, he says, and she keeps shaking her head, so he yells at her, barks his order in her face and she can feel the heat of his breath and the spray of spit from his lips. She flinches, whimpers, opens her eyes, and comes against the palm of his hand… ._

Audrey couldn't tell if the heat on her cheeks was from the water or her tears, but she couldn't release, though she wished she could, and the feeling was overwhelming. She sank to her knees, disbelieving what she just tried to do, heartbroken that this is where she'd been forced to go—masturbating in the shower to the memory of her rape.

"You're filthy," she whispered to herself, over and over again, her words drowned out by the echo of the water as it hit the tub floor and swirled away into the New York City sewer, taking with it none of the grime or guilt she was trying so hard to scrub away.

The sound of the door buzzer startled her. She stood up, almost too quickly, and briefly lost her footing in the slippery tub. Her hands fumbled for the faucet handle and she yanked it over, cutting off the spray.

In the dimly lit, steam-filled room, she listened through the echo of water droplets until she heard a second buzz. Audrey wondered if Jack had returned; she wasn't expecting company. She certainly didn't enjoy the thought. A part of her wanted to ignore it.

But she towelled off, dressed herself, and dripped through the living room to the door.


	4. Number 9

**Thursday, May 18**

**2:00 pm**

Olivia got out of the car. "Hmm…," she said, toeing an upturned trash can and sending a large rat scurrying toward a hedgerow in the process. She made a face.

"Make a new friend?" Elliot grinned at her.

Olivia ignored her partner, sidestepping the mess and glanced around the street before following him up the steps to the front door, recessed slightly in the exterior brick wall. Elliot pressed his thumb to the button beside a peeling, label-maker-sized number '9.'

The voice coming through the speaker was small and tinny. "Hello?"

"Audrey, it's Detectives Stabler and Benson," Elliot said.

After a moment of crackling from the speaker, they heard her voice again. "I'll buzz you up," he thought he heard her say as the door began to hum. Elliot tugged it open, and Olivia followed him inside.

Stepping into the lobby for the second time, Elliot gave his surroundings a once-over, something he hadn't done the night he'd brought Audrey home. At one point in time, he thought, the building might very well have been as beautiful inside as it was out. Evidence of wood panelling and crown moulding could be seen lining the walls. A discoloured streak on the wood floor attested to a carpet runner having been there, the floor around it faded from years of sunlight and exposure. Brass tacks and bits of green carpet clung to some of the stair treads.

Now, some walls spaces were painted mint green, others yellow, and two walls were covered in badly-applied wallpaper that now hung in sheets and ribbons from the water-stained exposed plaster behind. Where they weren't missing completely, the hardwood floorboards were cracked and dented. The hot water radiator underneath the messy wall of mailboxes clanked and rattled and hissed, sending heated air into the small space despite the soaring temperatures outside. The place smelled of mold and garbage and the stench was overwhelming; the trash can beneath the mailboxes was overflowing with junk mail and food wrappers.

Olivia sidestepped a unidentifiable pile of refuse on the bottom stair as she followed Elliot up to the second floor, her hand covering her mouth and nose in a futile attempt to block the smell from her olfactory receptors. "Ugh…," she said.

A pause while Elliot navigated around a sticky brownish puddle on the first landing between flights."Yeah," he replied.

Olivia wrinkled her nose again. "Nothing oughta surprise us anymore."

"Maybe it's a good thing that it does," Elliot replied, gaining the landing of the second floor. He waited for Olivia to join him before heading down the hallway.

A couple arguing at the far end caught their attention, as did the lazy, buzzing twirl of the single ceiling fan affixed a completely useless eleven feet in the air at the midpoint of the corridor. Two burnt-out fluorescent light fixtures popped and buzzed, sending sporadic bursts of light scattering to the floor. They approached a heavy green door with a brass number '9' affixed to it. Elliot raised his hand to knock but stilled it as the door groaned open before his knuckle made contact.

A fine-featured face peered out from behind the door. "Hi," Audrey said.

Elliot was surprised he didn't immediately recognize her. But he remembered her the way she looked the day he first saw her, and on the evening he took her home. _What a difference a few days makes_, he thought as he looked her over and saw faded bruises and healing cuts barely marring an otherwise attractive visage.

"Good evening," he said. "You remember my partner, Olivia Benson."

"Yes, I do," Audrey managed a smile. She combed a few strands of loose, damp hair behind her ear and stretched out her hand into the hallway for Olivia to shake. "Come in," she said finally, stepping back and taking the door with her as Elliot and Olivia stepped in. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"No thanks," they replied in unison, glancing at each other as they did so.

"How are you doing?" Olivia asked.

Audrey shrugged, chewing on her lower lip for a moment. "I don't know. I have nothing to really measure this against."

Olivia nodded. "That's understandable. It's not an easy process."

Audrey simply nodded.

Elliot cleared his throat. "Audrey, we're here to talk to you about the trial."

Audrey clasped her hands in front of her, lacing her fingers together and letting them drop to her waist. As she rubbed her thumb pads over the opposite knuckles, she nervously chewed a fleck of dry skin on her lower lip, fixing her eyes on Elliot.

"What about it?" Audrey asked.

Elliot shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "It doesn't look like there's going to be one."

Audrey furrowed her brow and gave a delicate shake of her head, damp hair shifting with the movement. "I-I don't understand."

"Donovan pled guilty on all counts."

Audrey's eyes watered. Her teeth pulled at the dry skin, and when it broke free and her lip began to bleed, she drew it into her mouth and sat, unmoving for a long time. "So he's going to jail? For good?" she asked finally.

"The DA is seeking the maximum penalty," Olivia said. "He'll never see the outside of a prison block for the rest of his life."

Audrey sighed deeply and walked over the couch. She seemed shrunken still, folding in on herself as she walked, her arms tightly crossed over her chest, her shoulders hunched. She sank into the couch cushions, looking even smaller as they swallowed her. "Why don't I feel better?"

Elliot took a step forward. "It's not a cure-all," he said. "But it's a start. You can begin to close that door and move forward now."

Audrey continued to bite her lip, considering. It was impossible to deny the anguish written on her face. Elliot ached; he thought about how he'd feel if this were happening to one of his daughters, to Kathy, and his anger focused on all the people who should have been there for Audrey. _Where is your father? _he mentally asked her. _Why doesn't he care what happened to his daughter?_

Olivia's cellphone vibrated against her hip. She nodded to the entryway, excused herself, and took the call.

He glanced to where Olivia stood, and then back to Audrey. "How are you doing otherwise?"

She shrugged. "Fine, I guess. I'm alive. That counts for something."

Elliot nodded slowly. "Do you need anything?" he asked. "There are a lot of resources—."

"Counsellors. Therapists. Support groups," she cut him off with a casual shrug. "I know, Detective Stabler. You gave me this speech already. And unless you're hard-of-hearing, I'm sure you understood me _then_ and you know what I'm going to say _now_."

It was his turn to shrug. "It's my job."

"Your job?" Audrey echoed, a placid smile on her face. "You've already gone above and beyond what could be reasonably expected of you by any law enforcement agency," she said.

Elliot looked down at his shoes. "I did what I had to do, Audrey."

"You saved my life," she said.

"And I'd do it again," he said. "In a heartbeat, no questions asked."

"I know," Audrey said, locking her eyes on his. They were filled with warmth and affection, bound with trust. Elliot had seen that look before, levelled at others, but never toward himself; not like this. He didn't know how to feel, except he could hear his heart pounding in his ears.

The sound of Olivia's voice as she ended her call drew Elliot out of the conversation in front of him. He half-turned to her and then back to Audrey, excusing himself finally.

"Liv?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper as he approached her side.

Olivia sighed. "That was Fin."

Elliot nodded, figuring he knew where Olivia was going. Fin had been investigating a prostitution ring for months after landing a case involving underage girls living in a makeshift brothel in the Meatpacking District. The deeper his investigation had gotten, the more convoluted it had become. At this point, the NYPD were using as many resources as they could muster; Elliot knew Fin was going to stake out the flop house that afternoon and probably well into the evening, and he suspected the call to Olivia had been to request assistance.

"Both of us?" he asked, and when Olivia nodded, she confirmed his hunch.

"If you're up for it," she replied. "He asked for us to meet him at the station in an hour."

Elliot glanced at his watch, then shook his arm so the cuff of his sleeve dropped back over his wrist. Before he could open his mouth, he heard Audrey interrupting from behind.

"Don't let me keep you," she said.

Elliot could hear the impudence in her voice, and sensed her hurt. But, again, before he could say anything, Olivia had interjected.

"You can call us at any time if you need anything," she said.

Audrey shrugged, but it was stiff, her arms folded defensively across her chest. "I know," was all she said. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," they both replied in unison as Audrey stepped toward the door and opened it for them.

Elliot gained Audrey's side and reached out to clasped his hand to her shoulder. "Are you sure you're okay?"

As he reached back and dropped his arm, Audrey's hand swung forward, the movement of her arm a small arc projected from her body. He saw the red chafing circling her wrists; he felt her fingers touch, grasp, and hold onto him. It lasted the briefest of seconds. He caught her eye and saw a swirl of emotions reflected back at him that he hadn't seen since—_Well_, he thought—since a seventeen year-old Kathy had told him she would happily be his wife. Fear, sadness, but longing too, and maybe, somewhere in the depths of Audrey's green eyes, a kind of affection. It was far more than he felt he had any right to see, not from her, not from a victim. He could feel the roughness of the ridges on their finger pads velcro-ing apart as she dropped her hand to her side and his arm continued its path, stopping to hang, numbed, just below the shield on his belt.

"Bye," she said, and she closed the door, darkening the hall where they stood.

"What was that?" Olivia asked.

"What was what?"

Olivia grinned and cast him a sideways glance and muttered something about being a real heartbreaker, before taking the lead and descending the stairs. He sighed deeply, following her down the narrow passage and back to the sweltering street, opening and closing his hand against his thigh as he went.


	5. Tea Time

On the other side of the door, Audrey pressed a hand to her mouth, sniffling back tears as she listened for the sound of retreating footfalls down the corridor.

Audrey had listened to their hushed conversation, had heard the way he called her 'Liv.' It made her stomach tighten, and she had had to remind herself that Elliot Stabler wasn't hers alone, that this was his partner and he had a job to do and she couldn't be the centre of his attention.

It was a hard sell. She liked the way it felt when he looked at her.

Shaking her head, Audrey stepped away from the door and over to the sink, where she filled a tea kettle with hot water and set it to boil on the stovetop. Reaching up into the cabinet above the sink, she looked for something interesting. She passed on the caffeinated teas - the Earl Greys and Orange Pekoes - and ignored the sweetly scented herbals - chamomile lemongrass or mint were just not enough for her - to dive right into the unopened bag of loose rooibos tea leaves she'd picked up at the market the day before she'd been taken.

_From this spot_, she mused darkly, pulling down the bag and flicking her thumbnail under the heat-sealed opening to pry it loose. _Making tea, just like this._

She found the tea ball she liked, but forgot that her favourite mug had been broken in the struggle the night Donovan slipped in through a half-open window off her fire escape. The thought made the pit in her stomach open up just a little, and she felt her knees buckle. Audrey found herself wondering how spiced rum would taste mixed with the woody undertones of the rooibos. _Not that it matters_, her rueful thought intruded. Her nerves were frayed and raw; she didn't care how it tasted, as long as the alcohol could smooth it over in the end.

She reached for the bottle above the stove and poured two fingers worth into the only other mug she had left.

Audrey didn't remember cleaning up the broken pieces of the first mug, the one that broke. She could recall arriving home, Detective Stabler a patient distance behind her, and immediately busying herself with the task; the feel of his hand under her elbow as she sank to the floor in tears, and the way his arm wrapped around the small of her back as he led her to her bedroom.

She still had no idea how long he'd stayed with her that night, but after fitful starts and shallow dreams, she took a doctor-prescribed sleeping pill and fell into slumber so deep she didn't wake until the sun was already well past its zenith the following day. And when she trod out into the kitchen, the shards of ceramic were gone; the blood on the floor, cleaned.

Audrey shut her eyes, neither willing nor able to make it stop. For the second time that night, her pulse quickened.

_Darkness. Light from outside glints off the kitchen tap. The air smells of dust and the powdery contents of the tea bags in her hands, earthy and woody and too sweet. She doesn't know what to pick. They all smell the same. This one, the one in her hand. She tosses it into her cup. Fills the kettle. There's a sound outside. Dogs. A car engine. She ignores it and puts the kettle on to boil._

The kettle had begun to hum beside her - that churning, metallic grind that used to be so familiar and comforting because it meant her day was done and it was time to settle in. Now, it filled her with apprehension. She wanted to turn around, but fear kept her rooted. The rapid bursts of her breath were the only other sound she heard.

_Rough hands grab her arms, pull her elbows to touch behind her back. Her mug drops. Smashes. She screams, but a hand wrenches her neck back, slamming over her mouth. Pain in her foot; she's stepped on a piece of the mug handle. She crumples, trying to drop to the floor, to get away, but he pulls her to him, holding her there. She stomps on his foot. Gets away. She screams, but he catches her before she reaches the door._

_Pulling her down, he climbs on top of her. She rails, her fists against his chest. He grips both wrists in one fist and pins them to the ground above her head. Smashes her face. She hears her nose break. She sobs and chokes on the blood in her throat, and he pulls her underwear down. She can't see his face until he pushes himself inside her for the first time and thrusts himself into a beam of light slanting in from the open window -_

Audrey's eyes snapped open then. The kettle was boiling, sending steam and a shrill whistle into the kitchen. Shaking, Audrey tried to take the pot off the burner, but only succeeded in pushing it to the centre of the stove, unable to lift it in her trembling hands. She wept as she leaned against the corner counter, staring at the spot where her attacker had first raped her, there by the door, while she lay in a puddle of her own blood until she lost consciousness. It was the last thing she remembered.

_But it didn't happen like that! _she screamed at herself as she remembered her fantasy from moments before. It had been Donovan who grabbed her. Donovan Krauss. He'd been the one to pull her to the ground, who'd punched her so hard her nose had crunched like a broken egg shell, who'd brutally assaulted her as she passed out beneath him, and who had taken her from her building to his with arrogant impunity.

_Donovan, it was Donovan! _she cried, grinding her hands against the sides of her head.

Then why was she seeing Elliot's face?


	6. Twenty Four Seven

**2:30 am**

Nearly ten hours into Fin's stake out, it became clear that it was going nowhere. Elliot was given the go-ahead to call in for a replacement and quietly excused himself for the night. It was well past two in the morning on a very long day, made all the worse by the fact that the promised rain storm hadn't arrived and the heat of the day had not yet dissipated into the night.

He called over to the car where Fin and Olivia were parked. "There isn't enough coffee in Manhattan to keep me awake right now," he groaned when she answered. "I'll see you in the morning."

"Good night, Elliot."

_Good night_, Elliot mused. He hadn't had one of those since the day he and Kathy had separated.

He had to stop at the precinct first, and the masochist in him felt compelled to check his desk phone messages as he locked up his things and said a round of goodnights to the midnight crew slogging away at their desks and processing the late night criminal element. He still hadn't put in the call to tech support about syncing his desk and cell phones; something about the process seemed invasive.

There were messages from the crime lab, one from Dr. Huang, another from Casey, one from Maureen. It was too late to call any of them back; he just took down the info on scrap paper to be filed somewhere in his to-do list for the next day.

He was certain the list was drawing to a close; he began hastily skipping or deleting messages after hearing the name of the caller, figuring he could piece it all together the next day if he had to.

The last voice on the list was the only one to give him pause:

"It's me… Audrey… I guess it's too late for this... almost one-thirty in the morning, but I couldn't sleep. You told me to call if I needed anything… I don't know. Maybe I do need a shrink after all. I guess I just need someone to talk to. If you're around… if you want to call… I'll be home."

Elliot listened to the message twice, then checked his watch. _3 am_, he thought. _It's too late. _

His mind whirred as he ran through a veritable laundry list of suggestions half-cooked by the witching hour. None of them felt particularly satisfying, and he wished Olivia were there. Elliot could have counted on her to ask "What's up?" and he would have replied, and she wouldn't have been shocked in the slightest, by the phone call or his split reaction. He could see her put her hands on her hips and ask him what he was going to do, and while the cop in her would have expected him to go, he wondered if there was another part of her—if there _should _be a part of him—that wouldn't have wanted him to rush to Audrey's rescue yet again.

_Peculiar thoughts_, he chided himself, _to be having about one's partner at three in the morning..._

His own words, and Olivia's imagined ones, were drowned out by the one in his ear, coming across the line: _I'll be home_.

On autopilot, Elliot dialed her number.

**Friday, May 19**

**3:15 am**

Elliot watched the door, waiting for Audrey to arrive. As he had entered the cafe, the sky above opened up and the first in the torrent of raindrops began to fall, cutting the un-springlike heat. It was now pouring, straight down in heavy sheets, filling the gutters and running like rivers down the street.

He took a sip from his coffee cup as the bell above the door chimed and Audrey walked in. Hesitant, she shuffled over to his booth, her head down, her eyes obscured by her hair, which was damp despite the fact that she closed up a very wet umbrella the moment she stepped into the room.

"Hi," she spoke softly as she slid into the booth across from him without looking up. A waitress sidled up to the table and refilled Elliot's cup.

"What can I get you?" she asked Audrey.

"I'm fine," she said, barely lifting her eyes to acknowledge the waitress.

"Let me buy you a cup of coffee," Elliot said, not waiting for her reply, but glancing up at the waitress to make sure she'd heard. Of course she had, and as she left, Audrey slipped out of her coat and folded it up against the seat.

"Thank you," she said.

"You're welcome."

"This is the farthest I've been from my building since… ."

Elliot paused for a moment. "I could have met you someplace closer."

"No," she said. "It's good for me. I can't stay inside all the time. And I don't really want to go out during the day. It's just too much."

Elliot didn't need reminding of the statistics about the re-victimization of rape survivors. Surely a witching hour walk through the streets of New York was the exact opposite of what a woman in her position ought to have been doing. He wondered if it had been a good idea to agree to meet in the first place.

The waitress returned with an empty ceramic cup and a Bunn coffee pot. She poured the steaming liquid into the mug and smiled before leaving. Audrey stirred a package of sugar and half a creamer into the coffee, but still hadn't looked up.

As she fingered the sugar packet in her hands, Elliot sat patiently, took a sip of his coffee, observed her. She smelled faintly warm and lemon-y; her skin was dewy, and her fingertips wrinkled. _That's not from the rain_, he thought. It was so common, he could count on one hand the number of times he knew of a rape victim who _hadn't_ felt the compulsion to shower frequently in the aftermath of an attack. In an instant, it became clear that this is what she'd been doing. It hurt to watch her, knowing that she could be scrubbing her skin with Brillo pads, under blistering water, and no one would ever know about it.

"So—?" he pressed.

"So."

He furrowed his brow. "You called and said you needed to talk."

She nodded, took a sip from her coffee. "I shouldn't be bothering you."

"I wouldn't have called you back if it was bothersome."

Audrey leaned her mug up on its edge, concentrating. "I'm a website designer, did you know that?" she asked.

Elliot knew she worked from home; her job description made sense with what he had already pieced together about her. Web design, especially at the startup level, was not the most glamorous job to be had in New York, but it fit a certain personality - introvert, intelligent. These were attributes he figured Audrey had in spades.

"How did you get into that?" he asked.

"Lucky, I guess," she replied. "I moved here with nothing and just started handing out resumes, hoping something would stick. This did."

Elliot nodded. "It's a common story."

She chuckled. "Not for girls from Yakima," she said. "See, in my hometown, girls grow up to be bank tellers and stay-at-home moms, not college graduates and certainly not New York City web designers."

"Then I suppose you're actually pretty far ahead of the curve, wouldn't you say?"

She let her eyes fall to the coffee again. "Yeah."

Elliot was loathe to press further, but he didn't know how many more chances he'd get with her, and he had questions. He glanced out at the still-torrential rain puddling on the road and the sidewalks, the sky beginning to lighten as the fingertips of the eastern sunrise stretched out against the bellies of the clouds above. People under umbrellas hurried along, their days already begun, while he sat on the tail end of a day that hadn't yet ended.

_A week that hasn't ended, _Elliot's rueful thought brought him out of himself._ A week that started with the sighting of their perp in a building in Queens, and that led to Audrey, and the week wasn't going to end until he knew why he felt so compelled to sit and listen to her stories… ._

He needed to ask.


	7. Velut Luna Statu Variabilis

"How is it that nobody reported you missing?" his impulsive question tumbled out. "A neighbour or coworker? Your boss?"

Audrey shrugged and sat silent for a long moment. "I work from home. Sometimes I don't call in to work for a week or more," she thought, her back stiffening. "Maybe I'm just forgettable."

He didn't like the way it sounded, like she was fishing for compliments but also like she actually believed it was true. "You know that's not how it is."

She seemed to bristle, though the slightest of tremors in her lower lip gave her away. "Clearly."

"What about your parents?"

"They live in Oregon now," she said. "But I hardly ever talk to them. And before you say it, I don't have any reason to believe I should call them now."

"You don't think they'd be concerned?" he asked. "That they'd want to know what happened?"

"They haven't cared before."

"Well, I'm guessing this hasn't happened before, either," he said.

She silently sipped her coffee.

"I have a daughter, not much younger than you. And I'd want to know. I'd want to be with her. I'd be on the next plane to wherever she was if something like this happened to her."

Audrey played with her spoon, dipping it into her cup and scooping out spoonfuls of coffee, then letting it drip back down. "What do you want - an award? Father of the year?"

Elliot shook his head, "That's not the point."

"I thought you said there wasn't going to be a trial, Detective," she snapped. "So why am I being interrogated?"

Elliot stopped.

She dropped her spoon into her cup. "If your kids are so important to you, why are you sitting in a coffee shop at three-thirty in the morning in Greenwich Village with me?"

Elliot sat back, unsure how to proceed. He should have expected such volatility. But he shouldn't have pushed. He'd hedged his bets in a selfish attempt to placate his own inquisition, and he'd lost. It was time to pony up.

"I'm separated," he said before equivocating. "What I mean is: my wife and I. _We're_ separated.

Audrey's eyes widened. "I'm sorry, it's really none of my business." She took a final, quick sip of her coffee and stood up. "I shouldn't have bothered you. Thanks for the coffee."

"Can I drive you home?" he asked.

"It's a short walk."

"Can I walk you then?"

She stopped, arranging the lapels on her coat as if it were the most important task in the world before letting her hands fall to her sides. "If you want," she said.

"Good," he replied, pulling two bills out of his wallet and dropping them to the tabletop before standing up and pulling on his own jacket. Audrey led the way, along the aisle and out into the cool but humid street, a half step ahead of Elliot. She pulled out her umbrella once they hit the sidewalk. Only then did she hold back, waiting for him to join her under the cover; when he did, being a good foot taller than she was, he grasped the umbrella in his hand and hoisted it a bit higher over their heads.

When they reached the stoop of her building, Audrey began fishing through her pockets for the keys.

"I know what you're thinking: I need to move," she mumbled as she slid the key into the rusted lock and creaked the door open.

He looked down at the rain-slicked toe of his dress shoe. "Home is home," he said. "But if _you _think you need to move, Victim's Services can help find you a new place."

She'd pulled her keys out of the lock and was rolling them in her hand. "Maybe."

Elliot nodded, deciding to leave well enough alone. "Well," he shrugged, but didn't finish the thought.

"Thank you," she said.

"Good night," he replied, handing her the umbrella.

She eyed the now-cobalt coloured clouds, lightening in the east. "More like 'Good morning,' right Detective?"

"You can call me Elliot."

She smiled. "All right, Elliot." She stepped up and over the threshold, stopped, and turned around. "Will I have to go to the sentencing hearing?" she asked.

Elliot stepped under the meagre overhang into the building to avoid being rained on. "You have the right to be there, if you want. But you don't have to."

Audrey nodded. "When will that be?"

"I don't know," he shrugged. "Sometimes you wait a week, sometimes a month. Sometimes longer."

Audrey nodded. "Will you let me know?"

"You'll be the first person I call."

Audrey was silent. She examined her keys in her hand, the peeling paint on the doorframe; all the while, she was trying so hard to keep her face from screwing up as she fought to hold back tears. Elliot stood there on the stoop, mute and useless, as stray droplets splashed down on his head and shoulders.

Finally, she took a breath and without looking at him, she smiled. "Thanks again," she said, pausing only a moment to hand her umbrella to him.

Elliot waved it off. "I'll be fine," he said. "It's just a few blocks."

"I insist," she said. "You can give it back to me the next time we see each other."

Elliot considered for a long moment before reaching out and gripping the handle, taking it from her grasp. "It's a deal."

Audrey nodded and smiled before sinking back into the recess of the lobby and disappearing from sight. Elliot turned and walked the block and a half to his car, Audrey's black and white pinstriped umbrella over his head.

He slept in the crib that night, unwilling to drive out to Queens with a shift starting so soon. As he lay awake, staring up at the water-stained ceiling—Audrey's umbrella leaning up against the bedpost—he let his tired mind wander.

He'd had close calls before—cases where the line between a win and a loss was so thin it was almost negligible—but this was the closest he'd ever come.

_Maybe that's why it's so haunting_, he thought. Donovan Krauss would almost certainly have killed Audrey had it not been for a chance sighting on that morning. Because nobody had reported Audrey missing, she wasn't the reason they stormed the building that day or called in a dozen other officers from three other precincts to apprehend him. They never would have been led to her in the first place.

But even once they got inside the building, Elliot thought, it had never been a sure thing. The only reason he'd even considered breaking down the door to was because he heard a window break within. And if he hadn't been there at that moment, standing on the other side of the door, he never would have heard it anyway. There was no reason to sweep the building, let alone any one particular room, without that sound. They never would have found her.

Elliot was beginning to realize that his and Audrey's story was bound by a series of incredibly auspicious events. He was a Catholic; he had been conditioned all his life to believe in free will. But this was something else entirely; something which defied even the most liberal and forgiving application of the doctrine. Any number of slips along the way and a very different story would be playing out. That this was what happened seemed predestined. It had to have been.

The thought caused tremors to glance up his spine.

_How much of my career can I claim as mine? _Elliot thought. _How much of what we do is really just dumb luck? _He pictured Olivia, his colleagues, working tirelessly to chase leads and bring down evil incarnate, and all the moments when they'd been too late by such margins as defied their ability to rationally accept the tragic outcomes they had been faced with.

If what they did was so rooted in luck, how could they reasonably continue knowing that their success or failure hinged on something so transitory, so evanescent, as luck?

As the sun peeked through the grate on the window, he felt himself slowly start to fall asleep. He wasn't comfortable with the supposition. But he had no better answers… .


	8. Epistemology

**Friday, May 19**

**8:14 am**

"Good morning, sunshine."

Elliot blinked one eye open and closed it again with a heavy sigh when he saw Munch's face grinning at him from six inches above. "What time is it?"

Munch took a step back and handed Elliot his wristwatch. "Quarter past eight."

Elliot groaned and sat up. He'd probably gotten no more than three hours sleep, tops. His back ached, and so did his head. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he straightened the tie still around his neck from the day before and stood up, slowly moving for the door, the stairs beyond, and the coffee counter below.

"Trying to pull an all-nighter again," Munch said as he caught up with Elliot near the percolators. "Not as easy as it was when you were twenty."

Elliot yawned and poured himself a mug. "When I was twenty, I was pulling a different kind of all-nighter."

"Screaming kids," Munch shook his head. "Bless your heart."

Elliot grinned and gulped down the putrid sludge, thankful that it was at least strong if not delicious. "Where's Olivia?"

"Still with Fin," Munch replied. "They spent all night parked outside that flop house, but they think their guy got tipped off. They're meeting Fin's informant now."

Elliot went back for a second cup, having downed the first mugful. "God help the bastard who pisses Fin off after an all-night sting."

"I'd wager Liv's a pretty mean S.O.B. first thing in the morning too."

Elliot lifted his eyebrows. "A partner never tells."

As he leaned back against the table, Fin and Olivia walked into the squad room. "All I'm sayin' is the guy's about as useful as a condom to a Catholic!" Fin shouted, looking over at Elliot, half-apologetically. "No offense, El."

Elliot gave a non-committal shrug of his shoulders and continued to drink his coffee.

As Fin spouted off and Munch joined him at his side, Olivia zeroed in on her partner. "You sleep here last night?"

Elliot glanced at the wrinkled, half-buttoned dress shirt and sighed. "It was late."

She nodded as he made his way back up the stairs to clean up his bed and take a shower. Olivia followed him.

"I hear you didn't have a very eventful night," he offered.

"Nah," she shrugged. "Didn't want you to miss anything."

He grinned, rolling the bedsheets back and tossing them into the hamper in the corner of the room. Olivia rounded the other side and pulled down a fresh set of sheets.

"Thanks," Elliot said as she began to unfold them across the bed.

"No problem."

Elliot watched her as she set about the task of making the bed. He had been rubbing at the smoky darkness that was the life of Olivia Benson for years, trying to clean up the hazy edges of her half-truths in order to gather a clearer picture of who she really was. There were times when he figured he knew Olivia better than he knew most of the people in his life, despite still being such a mystery to him. He had gleaned a lot from her routines, the things he picked up having spent every day working across the desk from her. But they were little things—how she took her coffee, what her favourite lunch was, what movies she watched; a pathetically superficial type of knowledge, bereft of meaning except that which could be read into it.

Now, he studied the way she wrapped the elastic fitted sheet around the corner of the mattress, the manner with which she tucked the free open end of the pillowcase around the pillow inside to keep everything together. And he felt more than a little strange about it. There was something so mundane about the task, so domestic, and yet it also felt oddly intimate. He began to question his entire approach. Did he deserve this kind of knowledge about his partner? Did Fin have it about Munch? Had Munch had it about Jeffries or Cassidy?

Olivia smacked her hand over the top sheet to smooth out more wrinkles and pulled it taut at the head of the bed. "There," she said.

"Thanks," Elliot muttered finally, clearing his throat a little.

"No problem," she said, smoothing her hand over the fresh pillowcase. She looked up at him and smiled, and out of habit, he managed a half-smile in return.

A thud on the floor beside her drew their attention away from the task at hand. Olivia bent down to retrieve the fallen item: Audrey's umbrella, previously resting beside the metal headboard and the adjacent wall and knocked free by the bed-making.

Elliot jumped on the defensive. "I can explain."

"Explain what?" she asked.

"It's Audrey's. She called last night. She needed to talk."

Olivia's eyebrows knitted together quizzically. "So _that's_ why you took off last night," she grinned a little and held the umbrella out to him over the single bed between them.

Hairs on the back of his neck pricked up; he bristled. "What's that supposed to mean?"

She shook her head, "What's _what _supposed to mean?"

With his mood significantly and inexplicably altered, Elliot snatched the item from her hands. "Nothing. Never mind."

He turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, leaving Olivia, her arm still outstretched, clasping the long-gone umbrella, in his frothing wake.


	9. Treasure Hunt

**Monday, May 22**

**11:33 am**

Elliot and Olivia made sure they were first in line to greet Donovan as he exited the gate at Riker's on the day of his scheduled outing to reveal the locations of his other victims' bodies.

Even with his orange prisoner's jumpsuit accented with chains and manacles befitting a man of his station, Elliot was surprised at how disarmingly handsome the man was. He had the looks of a Jude Law-type: striking features, strong and square-jawed, with even, modelesque proportions. His curly, unkempt blond hair had been shorn before his arrival in prison, while his gruff-looking beard had taken over the lower half of his face, but he still looked like a movie star.

Everywhere except his eyes. They were cold and black, deep-set and hooded by long lashes and bushy eyebrows, and evil. They were disarming, but for a very different reason.

Elliot rolled his shoulders and refocused on the day ahead of him. "Ready for a ride?" Elliot asked, a harsh note tripping into his speech.

Donovan ignored Elliot's words as his eyes travelled to Olivia. Slowly, he looked her up and down, making blatant his appreciation. He stood there, legs spread, and reached a shackled hand down to his crotch, pretending to rearrange himself but delighting in every moment of it as he licked his lips.

"Nice to see you again, Detective Benson. You're looking _ravishing_ today."

The guards escorting him to the van hauled him up and into the seat restraints; Olivia and Elliot waited until he was completely fastened in before walking back to their car, parked near the exit of the long driveway.

"Charming," Olivia spit as she slid into the passenger seat.

Elliot, for his part, kept his simmering anger in check.

Donovan had drawn a crude map of the city with the locations of the bodies circled in red. That map had been cross-referenced with an actual city map and handed out to everyone on the recovery team to chart their way through the day. As the hours dragged on, everyone noticed that, with eerie accuracy, each dot on the map corresponded almost exactly to the location of a body. It was hardly surprising that Donovan would remember such details—basic criminal psychology could have told them that—but no matter how many times they encountered a mass murderer with disturbing levels of eidetic abilities when it came to their victims, it never ceased to both amaze and disturb.

They were easily led to the first three victims' bodies. Through the labyrinth of parks and abandoned buildings Donovan had designated, they were left with no doubt in their minds that the man they were escorting around Manhattan was not only a serial killer and rapist but a certified sociopath. He had a hail-fellow-well-met way of interacting with the guards and police officers tasked with supervising him, shaking hands wherever possible and inquiring about the daily goings on in the city—which sports team was ahead in the standings; what the weather was going to be like for the upcoming Memorial Day long weekend. When his attention was drawn by a question about the case, he would switch gears without thinking, the same sing-song voice that had just been talking RBIs describing what kind of rope is best for disposing a body in water, what kind of cut would drain the blood from a corpse fastest.

This, coupled with his jovial whistle and the particular songs he chose to render—upbeat, "Don't Worry, Be Happy"-type songs—would have been enough to turn the most seasoned uni's blood to ice.

But the real kicker came when the third body was uncovered. Faced with the grisly remains of a woman he had strangled with her own belt before posing her body within a lean-to of mouldy mattresses and damp cardboard on the second floor of a long-empty building, he smiled openly, spouting off fond remembrances of the girl, as though she'd been a long-lost lover instead of his victim. Despite the vast decomposition, her ankle bore the visible remains of a snowflake tattoo; Donovan trembled with excitement when he whispered that she had been his "Ice Queen."

If either Elliot or Olivia had wanted to discuss the baggage seemingly hung between them, their thoughts were seriously derailed from that point on.

As the hot midday sun began its descent behind the Midtown office buildings and apartments, they entered Central Park, the location of the final victim. Elliot had been struggling to stay professional in the face of Donovan's casual arrogance and sociopathy all day. So when the guard escorting him to the site asked Elliot to take over while he found a bathroom, Elliot was more than happy to insert himself into Donovan's space. He marched the man into the heavily-treed area, heading for the precise location that Donovan had mapped out, Olivia flanking the other side. They were a stone's throw from the silence of the Imagine circle, and an area the size of a city block had been cleared of witnesses. Elliot felt a surge of adrenaline. He walked a little faster, forcing the shackled man to struggle to keep up.

"Don't think about trying anything, Detective Stabler," Donovan warned, his voiced hitching as he struggled to keep up.

"Oh? Like what?" Elliot tightened his grip on the prisoner's arm.

Donovan spat. "You cops think you're so goddamned special, waving your badges around. You think the world owes you something. It doesn't. You're no better than anyone else."

Before Elliot could reply, a CSU officer combing the scene ahead hurried over to the group.

"What is it?" Olivia asked the man.

The younger uni opened his hands skyward, signalling defeat. "We can't find anything. We've had our dogs all over this area for the last twenty five minutes and they haven't picked up on a single scent," he shook his head. "There's no body here."

Elliot fumed and spun Donovan around so he stood square, facing him. "What the hell are you trying to pull?"

"Hey, hey, hey!" Donovan attempted to raise his cuffed hands in defence. "Don't shoot the messenger."

Elliot wrenched Donovan's arm, digging his fingertips into the man's flesh until he began to laugh.

"All right," he cried. "I must have made a mistake."

Elliot's deep, monotone response was as bone-chilling as Donovan's casual indifference. "Start talking," he'd said.

"You know, you should start being a little nicer to me, Detective," Donovan said, spitting the word out along with a spray of spittle. "I'm doing this as a favour to you and your brothers-in-arms."

"Is that right?"

Donovan sneered. "I don't think the combined talents of the entire New York Police Department could find their own asses with both hands and a mirror, let alone my girls," he said.

Elliot smiled and nodded, looking at the ground for a moment and then around him at the thicket of trees in which they were standing. Then he reached out and grabbed Donovan by the collar of his jumpsuit and shoved him hard, lifting him as he walked, until his back smashed into the trunk of a tree.

"I'll tell you how this is going to go down. You'll lead us to the location of your fourth victim, or when I get back to my precinct, I will personally call the FBI's New York field office and tell them everything I know about you. And when I'm done, I'll call Pennsylvania, and Maryland, and every other state you've ever lived in. We'll compare notes on you and your little travels," Elliot's face in inches from Donovans. "Do you think we'll find anything interesting?"

Donovan furrowed his brow in fake consternation before training his eyes on Elliot, and then Olivia, smiling seductively at her before pretending to wrack his brain for the answer.

"Oh, I remember now!" he said, exaggerating his 'Aha!' moment to an almost farcical extreme. "This isn't where the Beauty Queen is buried; this was _going to be _where I put my Funny Face."

_Funny Face. _Elliot rolled through his memory of the statement he'd taken from Audrey the night they'd found her. _He'd called her Funny Face. Her name is Audrey. Like Audrey Hepburn, from the film. _

Elliot fisted the jumpsuit even tighter, grabbing wads of material in his hands and yanking Donovan off the ground, ignoring the hissing sound of a splitting seam as he wrenched the man a good six inches up and slammed him back, hard, against the same tree trunk. "You son of a—!"

In an instant, Donovan's guard, having raced up the embankment, attempted to pull Donovan down and sideways out of Elliot's grasp, while Olivia raced over to pull her partner away. Elliot, for his part, was completely and totally oblivious. His field of vision tunnelled, and all he could see were Donovan's cold, dead eyes. Blood pounded in his ears, and he made a fist of his right hand, raising it high, with every intention of smashing it clean against the bastard's face. He was only dimly aware of the sound of Olivia yelling his name, or the feel of her hands and the considerable strength she possessed, as she made every effort possible to back him down. She wrapped an arm around his, still outstretched and raised high, and despite his strongest exertion, he was unable to strike.

Donovan tumbled back to the ground, landing in a heap on the wood chips and mulch beneath him, and the guard yanked him up by the collar of his jumpsuit. Elliot pushed back against Olivia, sending her off-balance behind him. He felt his face, reddened from rage and toil, seemed to beat in time with his heart and the blood coursing just underneath his skin.

"See what I mean about you cops?" Donovan snarled as he was straightened out, "You think you're so special! But I know all about you, Detective Stabler. I know you've been seeing Audrey—."

A second guard and two more uniforms nearby intervened, pulling Donovan back toward the prison van. He twisted and fought, spitting and cursing as he was dragged away, eager to get his last words in. "Tell me something—have you _had her_ yet, Elliot? Did you _make her squeal_? She's a screamer, did you know that? You're such a big man, I bet you like it when they scream and fight you back. And she puts up a fight! But it's worth it to get a taste of her!"

He continued to taunt and leer the entire way back to the van, and even with increasing distance between them, Elliot could still hear every single disgusting word Donovan screamed at him. Incensed, he continued to fist his hands at his sides, unwilling or unable to shake it off.

Olivia braced her hands against Elliot's shoulders to keep him back, her shoes squishing and sinking in the soft earth beneath her as he pushed back.

"Let it go, El."

He didn't take his eyes off the orange jumpsuit, but eased up and took a half step back, still fuming. "Fuck!" he yelled.

Olivia kept her hands planted against Elliot's chest, smoothed out the bunched up shoulders of his jacket. "Elliot, you need to calm down"

Elliot stepped away from her and straightened himself out. A dozen uniformed officers and a few civilian onlookers, peering through the leaves from their distant vantage point, had surely heard the whole thing, if not actually seen it. He closed his eyes and tried to act as if nothing had happened.

"I'll call in replacements," she said. "They'll meet the team wherever Donovan takes them. You and I are gonna head back to the House. Okay?"

Elliot seethed as Olivia placed the calls, first to the precinct and then to the lead car in the convoy, which was parked at the edge of the search area. He watched her talk, one hand in the pocket of her jeans, toeing rocks and mulch absently, placidly. _Like she's calling her grandmother, _he thought.He sighed deeply. He knew he shouldn't have reacted so strongly, and at times like this, he wished he could be more like Olivia. Composed. Professional. As she closed her phone and started back up to where he was standing, her face a portrait of serenity, he envied her.

"They're on their way," she said.

"I'm seeing this through—."

"Elliot," Olivia's voice was stern but soft. "I'm not letting you go anywhere near Donovan. Not after what just happened."

Elliot lifted his eyes skyward, squinting against the glare of a single stray sunbeam filtering through the canopy of leaves above. "Cragen'll—."

"Cragen will side with me and you know it," Olivia said.

Elliot rested his hands on his hips, concentrating on the thudding in his chest. "This is _my _case. It's _my _job."

"You're not doing this alone."

"Really?" he accused.

She eyed him with suspicion, crossing her arms over her chest. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," Elliot sighed as he scrubbed his hands over his face, waving her off as he started back toward their car. His mind was a hot, whirring mess of self-recrimination and doubt, heaped atop a blinding rage that had almost seen him seriously batter a shackled prisoner. He would have killed him if Olivia hadn't stopped him. _Christ,_ he thought, _I barley even knew it __was__ Olivia. I could have done her in and never known it..._

The already toxic blend of uneasy guilt and regret over what he truly believed was his misconduct and handling of this entire case stewed deep below everything else. He was more than a little too involved. He was out of control.

He sighed, heavily, with the full force of his expanded rib cage, and felt as though, if he tried hard enough, he could blow down Manhattan itself.


	10. Marching Orders

**A/N: I really want to thank everyone who took the time to review or message me their thoughts and words of encouragement. It means a lot-I was very concerned that the story would not be well-received because of the subject matter. We're about half way to the end; things pick up a lot from here. I hope you'll stick with me till the bitter end!**

* * *

**Monday, May 22**

**5:30 pm**

"Elliot. My office. Now."

Elliot couldn't count the number of times he'd heard words to that effect coming from the general direction of his captain's office. He knew by now to expect it; he hadn't even bothered to take off his coat as he entered the bullpen.

Cragen held the door open for them, then closed it tightly once he'd entered. His silence as he strode around his desk and took a seat spoke volumes; Elliot braced himself for an earful.

"I don't know what you think you're doing, but assaulting a suspect… ."

"I didn't do anything I wouldn't have done in an interrogation."

"I don't care what you did. The fact is you did it in public, twenty yards from a hiking trail and spitting distance from one of Central Park's most visited tourist spots," Cragen shook his head and sat down. "You're lucky no one caught it on camera."

Elliot shifted on his feet. "He's a confessed rapist and murderer, and he was playing us like fiddles."

"My bosses already view you as a liability, and your outbursts are making us look bad." Cragen sighed from deep below his solar plexus and folded his hands atop his desk. "I know he was pushing your buttons. And I know it's hard to not take these things personally, to stay uninvolved. But you've gotta see how this looks to an outsider."

Elliot knew what was coming; he furrowed his brow. "Captain, with all due respect, I don't follow you."

"Three a.m. coffee dates? Fighting with your partner? Now this?" Cragen queried.

_Fuck_, Elliot cursed to himself. "And what would have me do?"

Cragen shifted his eyes down to his folded hands. "I know things haven't been peachy between you and Kathy for a while—."

Elliot leaned back in his chair as the realization of the true meaning behind his boss's line of questioning hit him square in the chest. "Are you kidding me?"

Lifting his hands a little, defensively, Cragen back-pedalled. "Elliot, it's not an accusation."

Elliot gnashed his teeth together, feeling a vein in his neck pulsing as his anger boiled over. "Like hell it isn't!"

Cragen's eyes were worried but calm. "Look: we've had run-ins with IAB before about the conduct of our officers on and off the job, and for less-serious accusations than romancing a victim or beating up on their attackers."

"I did my job."

Cragen nodded, but his mind was made. "And now it's time for me to do mine," he replied.

Elliot counted the seconds between breaths as he let the air fill with a long silence before asking: "You don't actually believe that anything happened, do you?"

Cragen leveled his eyes at Elliot. "I have to cross the Ts and dot the Is," he said. "And regardless of your relationship with Audrey Middleton, what happened today can't happen again." He took a breath, "So I think maybe it's best for everyone if you ride the pine for the next couple of days."

"Captain—."

"It's already done, Elliot," Cragen interrupted. "Go home and get some rest. Tomorrow's a new day. "

Elliot nodded, keeping his jaw locked as he turned and stalked out of the office. Olivia followed close behind as he beelined for his locker.

"Hold up, El."

He flung the door to his locker open. "I'm benched," he barked.

"Why?"

Elliot gave a derisive snort. "Since I roughed up a soon-to-be convicted felon," he said. "And since my relationship with Audrey seems to be drawing the kind of attention the department doesn't want—."

"Wait a second," Olivia said. "Cragen actually said that?"

"Not in so many words," Elliot replied. "But he asked if there was anything going on, yeah."

Olivia paused; she was choosing her words. "Is there?" she asked finally, her voice conspiratorial.

Elliot felt his stomach bottom out. "Jesus, Liv!"

"You know you could tell me if there was," she added.

Elliot slammed his locker door shut by way of reply. He glared at Olivia as he strode toward his desk. Fin and Munch, hunched over a set of documents on Munch's desk, cast sideways glances at the pair; across the room, two junior detectives leading away a perp in handcuffs couldn't help but stare. But Elliot felt immune to the embarrassment. Nothing hurt more than having his own partner question him.

Olivia seemed aware of the extra attention. "Elliot, come on," she glanced around her. "I'm just asking."

It was Elliot's turn to lower his voice. "And you should _goddamn well_ know me better than that."

She nodded. "I do," she said. "You're right, I'm sorry."

It wasn't enough to have to do this job day-in and day-out, he had to have his integrity questioned while he was at it. Self-doubt, he could handle; _this_ was unbearable. Elliot braced himself against his desk, trying to breathe past the baseball resting on his diaphragm.

"Is IAB involved?" Olivia asked.

Elliot flexed and unflexed his hands against the faux wood grain. "They're not gonna find anything even if they were."

"El—."

He stood up, shrugged on his coat.

"It'll pass," she said.

He rolled his shoulders, working out the kinks that he'd had since the day he started this job, which he figured would be there until the day he died. "See you tomorrow?" he asked.

Olivia nodded. "Call me."

He strode out of the squad room without another word.


	11. Missed Calls

**Monday, May 22**

**9:30 pm**

The bar down the street from Elliot's apartment didn't cater to his age group or vocation. On any given night, the clientele would almost always consist of military veterans and a handful of blue-collar factory workers, though Elliot was damned if he knew why they chose _this_ bar out of the hundreds of others they could go to; nondescript was too descriptive an adjective for it. _But that's probably why_, he thought. From the dingy pool table in back to the (deliberately? accidentally? ironically?) random assortment of neon signs, sports paraphernalia, old license plates, and glossy photos of half-naked pinup-types lining the walls, the bar insisted upon its own indifference to any label that could possibly be assigned to it.

The beer was cheap; the decor was forgettable. Here was a bar for either alcoholics or writers, and though Stabler was neither, he liked it all the same.

As he sat at the bar, alternately watching the Red Sox beat the Yankees, the Suns trounce the Clippers, and the Hurricanes tie up the series against the Bruins, Elliot nursed his pint and finished off a complementary bowl of peanuts sitting next to his glass.The flashing yellow-green light on the top corner of his cell phone blinked on and off; he had a message waiting. He'd known it was Olivia, had screened the call, and had chosen not to answer it. That was half an hour ago. He shut his eyes.

Downing the last gulp from the glass, Elliot stood up from the counter and flipped open the phone to check the message just as it began to buzz in his hand. He didn't even check the Caller ID before pressing 'Talk' and holding it to his ear. "Olivia, look—."

The teary voice on the other end wasn't Olivia's. "Detective Stabler, it's Audrey."

Elliot sat back on the edge of his chair. "Hey, Audrey, what's wrong?"

Through pained sniffles and sobs, he tried to make out what Audrey was saying. "I just got a call from Detective Benson. She said sentencing is on Wednesday."

He sighed deeply, realizing why Olivia had been calling him. "Audrey, listen, I know it's not far away, but you don't have to worry about a thing. Olivia will be there, and so will I, and—."

"No," she cried. "I'm upset because she told me you're off the case!"

Elliot paused, unsure what to say.

"She said you were removed from the case this afternoon. Is that why _she_ called me? You said _you_ would call me."

She began to cry again, and Elliot became aware of the prying eyes and ears of the bartender and two barflies a few stools down. Elliot dug around in his wallet for a bill sufficient to cover his tab and tossed it to the counter before heading toward the door. "Look, Audrey," he said as he stepped down to the street, "I found out about the sentencing hearing from you, just now. If I had known, I would have called you. I promise."

"Why did you have to leave the case?" she asked. "Was it because of me?"

Elliot shook his head, "It had nothing to do with you."

"Then why?"

"I can't tell you that, Audrey," Elliot used the practiced, even tone learned over years of raising temperamental daughters, "But I will tell you that I'll be there on Wednesday. I promise."

He knew he couldn't actually promise anything. _Not without getting the 'OK' from Cragen first, _he thought.

But in the moment, it didn't matter; his words had the desired effect. Audrey had calmed herself down enough that her breathing had evened out, returning nearly to normal; she could be heard on the other end sucking in deep, measured breaths.

"Okay," she repeated to herself.

"You all right now?" he asked.

"I'm all right."

She muttered her goodbye and Elliot hung up, perplexed. As he walked the block between the bar and his apartment, he dialled Olivia's number. She answered, groggy; he knew she had only just finished her shift, the same shift he knew he should have been finishing too. Guilt thickened his tongue.

"How are you?" she asked.

He groaned by way of response and sat himself down on the stoop.

"That bad?"

"Audrey called," he began, recounting the conversation he'd just had.

Olivia didn't say much for a while. "She didn't sound too good when she hung up on me, either. I just assumed it was because the turnaround was quick on this one."

"That's what I thought," he said.

"She feels a very strong attachment to you, too."

Elliot sighed, squinting up into the streetlight, searching for his response. "You gonna start up on this again?"

"You know this whole persecution complex you've got going on?" Olivia sighed. "It's really not a good look for you. Knock it off."

Elliot said nothing for a moment. His pride aside, he had to agree with Olivia. The more he thought about it, the more it did seem like Audrey had formed a strong—if not entirely healthy—attachment to him. Of course, there had been cases in the past where victims had kept his or Olivia's numbers on speed dial longer than would be considered normal. But it had been Olivia's arena, almost exclusively; her personality, her softness and her way with people, made her susceptible to that kind of attachment. He always assumed he was too gruff for anyone to really connect with him meaningfully in the time they had together.

But maybe that wasn't it at all. Maybe this was different. Maybe the trauma was just too much to handle on her own, and if it had been Olivia, or Fin, or literally anyone else who had found Audrey that day in the apartment building, maybe it would have been the same thing.

_Yes, yes that's it,_ he rationalized it to himself, unable to comprehend any other reason for Audrey's fondness of him._ That has to be it_.

Olivia was still talking; he realized he'd missed a good chunk of what she'd said. "…Might feel abandoned. She would perceive your absence as a substantial threat to her well-being. You're the only person she's opened up to. The only person she trusts."

Elliot leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and running a hand over his face. "So, Dr. Benson," he teased, "What should I do?"

"Go to the hearing. Support her over this last hurdle. When all is said and done, we can make one last push for her to see someone. Maybe Huang can recommend something."

"We should arrange for him to meet with Audrey after the hearing," Elliot offered. "Casually."

"If she's going."

With certainty he wasn't sure he was entitled to bear, Elliot nodded to the night. "She'll be there."

"You'd better put a call in to Cragen and make sure he's not gonna ride you about going tomorrow. I'll call Huang."

"Good," Elliot said, pushing himself off the stair and up toward the door.

There was a pause at her end, but Olivia's sudden inhalation stopped him from speaking, sensing that she wasn't done just yet.

"Hey El?"

Elliot really liked it when she called him that, though he'd never told her as much. He smiled. "Yeah?"

Olivia sighed deeply into the phone. Elliot held back from saying a word, standing on his stoop, his key in his hand and his hand half way between his body and the lock on the door. He waited for her to continue, but she didn't.

"Liv?"

"It's nothing," she replied. "I'll see you tomorrow."


	12. Of Feebs and Men

**A/N: This is a pretty long chapter; I'm sorry. I don't like writing such long sections because they're hard to get through, but I hope you enjoy it! I don't know how realistic the court events are, so if you have suggestions for ways this could be enhanced believably, please drop me a line. I'm not as familiar with the ins and outs of the American judicial system as I am with our system here in Canada...so while I try to research this as much as I can, there are places where I have to hypothesize!**

I'd also like to give a big shout out to my beta, Bob Rhynoplasty, without whom I could not have gotten this far! Thanks so much :)

* * *

**May 24**

**2 pm**

A judicial order had banned the media from access to the court room itself, resulting in the congregation of cameras and microphones on the steps in the front of the building and along Centre Street. The noise they created was always deafening, and refuge was hard to find within the echoing marble halls of the court house.

However, the farther within the building one traveled, the less identifiable the din became; by the time it had reached the upper levels and the heavy oak doors of this particular courtroom itself, it had taken on qualities more likened to a babbling brook than a hoard of journalists. Almost peaceful. Serene.

At least that's how Elliot thought about it, if he thought about it at all, which he normally didn't. He'd been there before, in worse situations, with higher-profile defendants and victims, with cases playing out on the national or even an international level. He wasn't new to this.

But this was different.

On the other side of the hall, Audrey stood dwarfed by marble columns. The deep purple sweater over a black dress, hitting her at the knee, with the black pearls at her neck and on her ears, her hair waved and curled around her face—it had the combined effect of making her look younger and older all at once. She hadn't noticed him sitting there, but he had taken no great pains to announce himself. When she finally did see him, she didn't really smile, but her shoulders lifted. He took that as a good sign, and moved over on the bench to make room for her.

"I'm glad you came," she said by means of salutation.

"Likewise."

She looked around the foyer. "Detective Benson isn't here?"

Elliot nodded behind Audrey, where he caught sight of Olivia ascending the stairs, deep in conversation with Casey.

Audrey turned and followed his eyeline. The disheartening look that crossed her face was fleeting, replaced within seconds by the same anxious mask she'd been wearing before.

"It'll be over before you know it," he tried to reassure her. "You'll be back home before _Judge Judy_ starts—."

"What if I can't do this?"

Elliot paused, looking down at his shoes. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the way she kept wringing her hands between her knees.

"You don't have to do anything," he said.

"He'll see me," she turned to him, pivoting on the bench until their knees were touching. "He'll be twenty feet away… ."

Elliot sat up straight. "And there's nothing he can do to you now. Not with all these people around. Not here," he said, searching her face until she lifted her eyes to meet his before adding: "Most of all, not while I'm here."

She inhaled, exhaled, closed her eyes underneath knitted brows. Court was called into session; everyone began to file in. Olivia and Casey made their way over, and Elliot stood up to leave with them, but none of them budged an inch until Audrey squared her shoulders to the door and gained her footing, treading as sure as she could over the tiled floor between the bench and the courtroom doors.

There were so many spectators, and like a wedding, they filed into benches like pews, victims' families on one side, supporters of the defendant on the other. Elliot watched as parents of the girls whose bodies he'd found shuffled across the tiles, listless and vacant expressions glued on their hands, or their feet, or the wall behind the judge's bench.

But when the bailiff finally moved to the side door, all eyes turned to catch the movement, and a hush fell over the assembled crowd. Donovan was escorted by prison guards, his shackled hands and feet clanking loudly as he shuffled across the room to the table opposite. Elliot was aware of the vitriol stewing around him as mothers wept and bunched their hands around their purses or their husband's arms, while fathers' eyes turned cold and murderous. Elliot, for his part, kept his eyes on Audrey as her back stiffened, impossibly, more than it already was. When Donovan turned to look at her, his piercing eyes blading across the distance between them, the facade broke and she lowered her eyes.

Elliot angled forward, resting a hand on Audrey's shoulder.

"Elliot," she whispered. He felt her shoulders shaking under his palm.

"It's okay," he said.

Donovan continued to stare her down, a grim smile on his face. Only when his attorney saw the exchange did he admonish his client, encouraging the confessed criminal to turn around.

Elliot squeezed her shoulder; Audrey tilted her head to the side, brushing her cheek against his fingertips. She stayed like that for a moment before sitting up straight, reaching over, and clasping his hand with her own. "Okay," she whispered, turning to look at him out of the corner of her eye.

He eyed Donovan—his Cheshire smile making Elliot's blood run cold—and left his hand where it was, his fingertips resting on the tip of her collarbone, his thumb on her shoulder blade, her hand warm against his knuckles.

The judge's entrance was announced; everyone in the courtroom stood up.

"Be seated," the man said as he took his own seat at the bench. The case docket being read, he peered down his nose at the defendant's table. "Is the defendant, Donovan Grant Krauss, present?"

Across the courtroom, Donovan and his defense lawyer stood up. "I am, your honour."

"Mr. Krauss, you have already pled guilty to nine counts of first-degree murder and ten counts of aggravated sexual assault. Is that correct?"

Donovan nodded at first before replying. "Yes, your honour."

The judge stacked paper in front of him, "I'm assuming we're all here today since it is the People's wish that sentencing be pronounced immediately," he peered over his glasses at Casey. "Is that correct?"

"It is, your honour," she replied.

"Very well," Judge Bairstow set the stack of papers down and removed his glasses.

Behind him, Elliot heard the courtroom doors open. Glancing back, he saw four dark-suited men enter and take seats in the last bench. With a gentle nudge, Elliot got Olivia's attention; motioning behind him, he waited for her reaction to register. When she did, a sharp eyebrow lift let him know she was as surprised as he was.

"Feds?" she mouthed.

Elliot shrugged, turning his attention back to the judge. Few in the courtroom seemed to have noticed.

"Mr. Krauss, I am appalled by the lack of remorse—or, indeed, the lack of any kind of feeling—which you have exhibited since the beginning of this entire procedure. The only glimmer of humanity which I have been able to discern in you is from your choice to lead detectives to the bodies of the last remaining victims yet to be found," Judge Bairstow shook his head. "And even then, I question your true motive."

Donovan didn't react. In fact, Elliot thought he only saw the man's lips twitch, as if to dare to smile.

"You will not find leniency in my courtroom, Mr. Krauss. You are hereby sentenced to nine consecutive life sentences—."

The judge was cut off by the emotional outburst of one of the victim's mothers. Elliot also saw, out of the corner of his eye, that the men in suits at the back of the courtroom had begun to make their way to the front. Judge Bairstow saw them and nodded. It was all Elliot needed to know that the drama had just begun.

The judge continued: "—A sentence to be served concurrently alongside any other sentence brought upon you by any other court in these United States of America. Beginning immediately, you will be remanded into the custody of the Federal Bureau of Investigations—."

The defense attorney stiffened, drawing Donovan's attention. It was then that he became aware of the suited men, whose swift approach drove them through the barrier separating the spectators from the front of the courtroom. Two men took him by the shoulders; another handed a folder of documents to the defense lawyer, who had gone from polite upset to furious outrage and was directing his anger at the men who were now clearly understood to be agents of the FBI.

Elliot and Olivia watched the unfolding scene with amazement. The defense attorney shouted his objections, his intention to file appeal after appeal, his denouncement of the backroom deal that almost certainly had to have gone down in order for the FBI to get hold of his client so soon after the pronouncement of a sentence. Donovan, his bravado replaced by confusion, sought answers. As the agents at his sides Mirandized him, Donovan exploded.

"This is all _your _fault!" he lunged at Casey, who leaped back and came to rest against the balustrade behind her, bracing her hands against the polished oak. Judge Bairstow whaled on his gavel as spectators gasped and shouted in confusion and excitement, and agents held Donovan back. The strength of his fury kept him locked a few feet from the prosecution table despite the arms of his security detail holding him back. His eyes were wild as he dug in and refused to move, while Casey tried to hold her ground.

Elliot rounded the long bench and took a stance nearer to Casey, his hand at his gun, ensuring that Donovan saw him; Olivia, too, kept her hand close to her holster, eyeing Donovan down, ready to intervene. Donovan shifted his attention to them, and then to Audrey. When their eyes met, he flashed a grin so sinister it sucked the breath out of everyone around him.

"And _you! _You sniveling _bitch! _You _liked it!_ You fucking _liked it!"_

Two additional security personnel finally reached the front of the room through the throng of spectators flooding out and helped to haul Donovan away. As he was led off through the doors he'd only so recently entered through, he kept his gaze locked on Audrey, sinister grin plastered on his face and murder lurking behind his eyes.

Elliot reached for Casey, first. "Are you okay?" he asked, gripping her shoulder.

She was shaken, her face registering her fear. She closed her eyes and straightened her blazer before drawing in a shaky breath. "I'm fine," she said, drifting off.

"What the hell just happened, Casey?" Olivia asked.

"Look, I'm really sorry. There was no time to fill you in and this was all supposed to be on the down low anyway," the ADA apologized. "We got a call a few days ago from the Montana FBI field office. The Feds have been looking at Donovan for dozens of crimes across five states over the last fifteen years, but they've had nothing to go on. The evidence we collected here would help them build a case that could be just as good at linking him to the other crimes as having his confession for each one."

Olivia was awed. "Establish a pattern of attacks," she whispered. "Use his confession here to testify to his MO in the other cases."

Elliot was more incensed. "They're riding off of our work, that's what they're doing!" he spat.

Casey made a face. "If that's all it was, they wouldn't have waited until sentencing to arrest him."

"Why _did_ they wait?" Olivia asked.

"Because I was up all night practically begging them to consider this from our perspective," Casey shrugged. "In the end, they agreed it was the right thing to do. Allow him to be sentenced here, have it be entered into public record, give closure to the families, and then perform an interstate extradition. We barely had time to tell the judge, and the defense attorney, well—."

Audrey tugged at the sleeve of Elliot's coat, and his previous frustration at being played by the FBI once again dissipated. He turned to her, having forgotten in the midst of everything that she was still there. "Are you okay?"

"What does that mean?" she kept asking. "I don't understand. What does it mean?"

"It means he's going to face more charges," Elliot replied.

"In other jurisdictions, other states," Olivia added. "In a federal court."

"But he's going to jail?"

She didn't wait to hear the answer; instead, she pressed her hands to the sides of her head, blocking her ears. "Why did he say that? Why did he say that?"

Olivia sat down next to Audrey and smoothed her hands across the young woman's back. "It's all right."

Audrey cupped a hand to her lips. "I think I'm going to be sick… ."

Elliot watched as the blood drained from Audrey's face. He met Olivia's gaze.

"Let's get her outside," she said as Audrey clutched her stomach and clamped a hand over her mouth. From beyond the doors, Elliot could hear the eruption of noise as journalists scrambled into the building, up the stairwell, clamouring for a soundbite, a photograph, to commemorate the sensational turn of events.

Elliot knew he couldn't easily get Audrey out the conventional way, at least not without her photo ending up on the evening news.

"Is there another way out of here?" Olivia asked Casey.

She nodded back toward a doorway in the corner of the courtroom. "Two flights down and you're outside."

"Thanks," Elliot said as he and Olivia each took an elbow and led Audrey out of the courtroom and down the stairs.

Reaching the ground level, Audrey pushed through the metal door and lunged forward, teetering unsteadily on shaking legs, until she reached a tree; bracing herself against it, she heaved and heaved, but nothing came out. She began to cry.

Both detectives came to stand beside her, waiting for her to finish. She collapsed onto the grate keeping the roots of the tree covered, hands and knees striking the ground hard. Olivia kept the curious passersby away while Elliot knelt down at her side and began to stroke Audrey's back.

In the time it took to run his hand down half the length of her spine and back once, she had folded herself into his embrace, and he found himself unable to do anything but let her rail against his shoulder.

"Why did he say those things?" she slammed her fists against him, nearly knocking him over. "Why? _I didn't like it! I didn't!_"

He stood up, taking her with him, and caught her wrists in his hands. She fought him, twisting her arms in a bid for him to release her.

"Of course," he said. "No one needs convincing."

"But _why_?" she wailed.

Elliot finally brought her hands together in the space between their bodies, pulled his arms around her. She stopped fighting, and he barely rested his cheek against the top of her head. Her cries began to subside, but still he stood there, his feet planted against the concrete, in the shade of tree leaves, barely rocking back and forth with Audrey in his arms.

_To Serve and Protect_. He took that oath seriously. And protecting was something he always felt he was good at. He'd even been told so—by his wife, even by Olivia, once, when they'd first started working together and she'd needed a shoulder. But it was Maureen whose words came to him now; old words, from a rare moment of intimacy when she was still young.

"_You've got strong arms, Dad," _she'd said. _"They're just about the only place in the world where I feel safe_."

He gently tightened his embrace around Audrey's slender shoulders. That moment with Maureen was one he wanted to remember for the rest of his life, because it was one of the reasons he put himself in these positions: he was good at it, built for it, engineered to provide it. And in that moment, he honestly didn't care if it was wrong to have more than a professional connection with a victim: this is what she needed from him, and this is what he was bound by duty to give her.

After a while, Elliot began to notice that Audrey was barely making a sound at all. He lifted his head and craned it to look down at her.

"Liv," he said, and Olivia, leaning against the courthouse wall, stepped toward him.

Olivia bent to check, and she nodded. "She's out."

Elliot was loathe to wake her. Olivia placed one hand on her shoulder and Elliot released his arms to help rouse her.

"Audrey…," they urged, quietly at first. It didn't seem to have much of an effect.

"Audrey… wake up, honey," Olivia cooed.

"Come on, Audrey."

Her eyes slowly opened. "Wha-?" she looked around, shaking her head.

"Let's get you home, okay?" Olivia offered.

Realizing what had happened, Audrey's eyes snapped open fully. "I'm sorry!"

"For what?" he asked, perplexed.

"I'm sorry. I have to go."

"Let us give you a ride," he offered.

"No, I really need to go."

Olivia stepped toward her. "We can call you a cab… ."

But before Audrey could reply, she was halfway down the block, racing around the courthouse to the street, leaving the detectives to stand mystified on the now-nearly empty street corner, watching her go.


	13. Merit Badges

**7/30/12 A/N: I made an executive decision to conflate this chapter with the one coming up next to it. I hadn't realized just how short the next section was and how well it rounded off this chapter until I tried to post it on its own. It's been included at the end of this chapter, in case you are re-reading this. **

**If this is your first time: carry on, my friends.**

* * *

**May 24**

**5 pm**

Audrey paced up and down the length of her living room. She looked frightful and she knew it, having passed by a dozen shop windows and the stares of who-knows-how-many strangers on the street on her way home from the courthouse. Her hair fell in ratty clumps against her forehead and neck. Her stockings were run through on both legs, one zippering up the back of her calf and the other pocked with holes below her knee. Her skirt sat askew, the back zipper closure somewhere near her left hip and the small black bow detail on the front over her right thigh. She knew her mascara was smudged beneath each eye, and what little lipstick she still had on her face was nowhere near her lips, smeared across her cheeks from gasping into her hand as she cried. She chewed on her fingernails and perched on the edge of her sofa, cried out for now, and waiting patiently.

The door buzzer rang, and Audrey let her visitor up without checking to see who it was. Within moments, someone was banging on the other side of the her door. The sound of fists was enough to frighten her, and her heartbeat amped up, even though she knew who was there. Her hand flew to her throat and she hugged herself as she made her way to the door, taking breaths as deep as her shudders would allow as she pulled it open.

When Levy burst into the room, Audrey broke down in fresh tears and folded herself into him, her arms tucked against her chest.

"Oh my god, Audrey, what's the matter with you?" he asked, shutting the door with one hand and grasping her around her back with the other.

She sobbed into his shirt. "I had no one to turn to."

"I saw you on the news today," he brushed her hair back from her face and made her look at him. "What the hell were you doing down at the courthouse?"

"He was being sentenced! He said horrible things!"

"Who did?" he asked. "Who said those things?"

"Donovan... ."

Levy screwed up his face. "That serial killer? What were you—?" he cut himself off as the other shoe dropped. His eyes took in the whole of her face. "Oh my god."

She nodded, her head dipping and rising in solemn sync with her weeping.

Audrey told him everything—from the moment she became aware of an intruder in her home until the moment Elliot Stabler had burst through the door to the apartment in which she'd been held captive. They sat together on the sofa, and he held her hand and got her a box of Kleenex and a glass of water when she needed it, and she cried and got angry as she recounted the terrible things her attacker had done to her.

"And now he's going to be put on trial for other crimes, in other states where they have the death penalty."

Levy nodded sagely. "Capital punishment," he started. "It's uh it's a big deal."

"I don't want anyone to _die. _In principle, I'm against execution. But he did _horrible _things," she shuddered. "He would have killed me."

"You can't think about it like that, though," Levy reminded her. "That's not what happened, so you need to forget that it was even a possibility and move on."

Audrey shrugged, knowing that, for the first time that night, he'd said something profound and possibly even correct. "I can't forget it though."

"You've got to," he said. "You have to be stronger than him."

"I don't know how to be."

"Yes you do."

She sagged again into the couch, lifting a hand to her mouth to chew at a jagged cuticle. For a moment, her eyes focused somewhere off into the distance. "You didn't hear what he said to me in court."

Levy paused, leaving her room to continue, but when she didn't he urged her on. "What did he say?"

Audrey continued to chew for a moment before lifting her eyes to meet his. "That I liked it... ."

Levy lowered his eyes to his lap. "Audrey."

"I know. I need to ignore it," she started before inhaling sharply. "But I can't! I hate myself! I hate crying all the time! I want my life back, dammit!"

Levy sat quietly while she fumed and fisted her hands and beat them against the cushions and pillows and her own knees, which she eventually drew up under her chin as she sat and rocked on the couch. Levy didn't say a word and neither did she; they sat just like that for what felt like an eternity. The light outside the window began to fade as night chased away the day; a slow drizzle began, raindrops tapping against the glass sounding like crystals as they echoed around the room, more cavernous than she'd ever felt it before.

At one point, Audrey became aware that Levy had placed his hand on her foot. An odd gesture, but one which she felt was sincere. She had been longing for physical contact with another person for what felt like forever. A hug, an arm around the shoulder, even a handshake would have done the trick. When Elliot had let her fall asleep in his arms standing up on the street corner that afternoon, it was the overkill of emotion that drove her away. She knew that was part of the reason she had run, out of embarrassment, maybe. But also for fear of what it made her feel: vulnerable and small and in need of protection, something she could find wrapped in his arms, so warm she literally drifted away, to a good place that only he seemed able to bring her to.

Levy's hand on her foot was nothing near that. But it was contact, and she'd take it for what it was.

"I don't even know your first name," she said finally, her voice piercing the silence and shocking Levy so much he jumped, scaring them both.

When he settled himself down, he cleared his throat. "I-It's Jack. Jack Levy."

"Jack?" she asked finally. "Would you do me a favour?"

"Sure," he said. "Anything."

When Audrey turned to him on the couch, leaned forward, and pressed her lips into his, and it annoyed her to discover him waiting a seemingly prescribed period of time before gently returning the kiss with all the eagerness of an Eagle Scout more experienced in tying square knots for merit badges, caught against the passenger door in the backseat of his father's car with a girl for the first time. He kissed by the book, gentle and sweet, not savagely; Audrey began to wonder if he'd ever made it with anyone past this part in the process. The way his hands moved, skimming over her hips and smoothing down the flyaway strands of hair, seemed to have been gleaned from soft-focus romantic drama love scenes. It was distracting, but maybe it was enough.

Of course, the man she really wanted was a contradiction in terms. Strong yet tender, fierce yet profoundly sad, laconic yet emotive. Kissing him, she imagined, would bring tears to her eyes; would weaken the sinews binding her kneecaps to her femurs; would cause her core to immolate itself if he waited too long to touch her, if just for release from the madness he had started.

_This_ man was far from _that _man, with his mess of dark denim and vintage sneakers and a comic book superhero t-shirts. But he was warm and he was there, and despite his awkwardness, he _was_ kissing her. She could feel the twinge between her legs and squeezed her thighs together, letting herself pulsate.

She pulled away, a tepid smile on her face.

"Be with me tonight?" she asked.

Jack cocked his head to the side and asked, just to be sure. "Be with you. Like… _be _with you?"

She nodded. "I want to feel," she said. "Anything but this."

Her eyes pleaded with him, red-rimmed and still filled with tears. She'd dropped a hand to rest on his knee and traced lazy circles on his kneecap with her index finger. He gripped the arm rests of the couch.

"O-Okay," he replied. He put his hand in hers and she led him to the bedroom.

* * *

**May 24**

**8 pm**

As the day ground to a close, the suggestion was made that the group of them all finishing their shifts head out for drinks. It took no time at all for a flurry of movement to explode in the squad room as coats were grabbed and everyone hurried to the door.

Audrey had neither been seen nor heard from hours, and both Elliot's and Olivia's faces were drawn into the worrying frown of the emotionally involved. Even that worry, they had to acknowledge, was tenuous at best: A grown woman, no matter how distraught, had the right to disappear for a while.

They stared at each other across the desks.

"You go ahead," he motioned at Olivia, "I'll stick around for a while. Just in case."

Olivia nodded to the others to go on, then turned back to her partner, cocking her head to the side. "I'll stay."

He shook his head. "No really, it's fine."

"You need a break."

"What do you call yesterday?"

"You got _an evening _off, El."

"But what if she calls… ."

Olivia sighed and rested her hands on the back of her chair. "Look, Elliot, she's a big girl. Maybe she just needed some time to cool down. Maybe we're blowing this out of proportion."

Elliot shrugged and glanced out the door after his long-gone comrades. "Think maybe we should send someone by?" he asked. He'd thought about going over himself, but something in her reaction to him that afternoon that made him uneasy, and he thought twice about putting himself in the same vicinity as her so soon.

Olivia nodded. "I called in a favour about an hour ago. A patrol car said they'd stop by."

He wavered.

"Come on," she said. "I'll buy you a drink."

He hesitated, but Olivia's smile convinced him, and he grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair and made his way to the door, two steps behind her.

They didn't make it outside the squad room. Just beyond the doors, a commotion had erupted. Both Elliot and Olivia peered around the corner, but the mass of bodies and movement made it nearly impossible. Olivia stepped over to the door, just as Fin burst through.

"Drinks are off," he said as he held the door open behind him for Munch to walk in, his arms around a girl who he helped to walk in at his side. A grey blanket around her shoulders was drawn up tight under her chin, and with her head down and her hair hanging over her shoulders, her face was completely obscured. Fin retrieved a chair for her and wheeled it over, and when he set her down, Munch looked up at Elliot.

"You're not gonna believe this… ."

But Elliot had taken one look at the flat shoes, the torn tights, and the pencil skirt, and he didn't have to look any further.

"Audrey… ."

Olivia stopped dead in her tracks as Audrey lifted her head and looked at them both with sad eyes. She began to cry again, dropping her chin to her chest, and as Munch warmed her arms by rubbing the woollen blanket around her shoulders before standing up to his full height.

"She says she's been raped."


	14. Déjà Vu

**7/30/12 A/N:**** REALLY IMPORTANT! There is a small, 600-word snippet of a section which I felt couldn't hold up as a chapter on its own but also didn't fit at the beginning of this chapter, so I tacked it on to the end of the preceding one ("Merit Badges.") I hope this doesn't cause any confusion! Head back and read the last bit of the last chapter for the updated version! I promise you won't regret it!**

* * *

**May 24**

**9:12 pm**

"How is she?" was Elliot's first question as the attending doctor exited Audrey's hospital room.

"Well, she's better now," Dr. Wilson replied. "We had to sedate her to administer the exam. Enough to keep her lucid but also to lie still. She's not talking much but she keeps asking to see you, Detective Stabler."

Elliot nodded, but said nothing.

"She was also repeating the name 'Jack Levy,'" the doctor said. "Does that name mean anything to you?"

"Levy?" Olivia repeated, shooting a look at Elliot, who was already on his phone with the lab, giving them the name to run. "Were you able to get any physical evidence?" she asked.

Dr. Wilson nodded slowly, lowering her voice and stepping away from the door to the room. "We collected semen and hair samples. It should be no problem for your people to extract a DNA signature. We also collected a blood sample to test for drugs and alcohol."

Dr. Wilson hesitated for a brief second.

"What is it?" Olivia cocked her head to the side.

"She has no defensive wounds on her hands or arms or genetic material under her nails to suggest she fought off her attacker."

"That's not unusual," Olivia said. "If she'd been sedated or had been drunk—."

"And we won't know that until the tox screen comes back," the doctor said. "Normally I wouldn't bring this up, but there are a few things that just don't add. The sex was at least a little rough, and she has lacerations and bruising consistent with that… ."

"You're saying she's lying to us?" Elliot queried as he hung up his phone and rejoined the conversation. Olivia could hear the tension in his voice; she shot him one, quick look in the hopes of quieting him.

Dr. Wilson calmly asserted herself. "I'm only telling you what the evidence told me," she said. "I know not every rape victim fights back to the extent that we'd be able to find evidence of it. But the injuries we're seeing now could result from a well-endowed partner, and we see it in members of the BDSM community as well," she said. "This is far from slam dunk evidence of sexual assault."

"Why don't you leave the detective work to us," Elliot ran his hand over the stubble on his chin.

"Anything else?" Olivia countered.

The doctor flipped open to another page in her notebook. "She has a number of injuries that haven't healed from her previous assault," she closed her book. "I thought that was strange. I would have expected to see new tissue growth by this point, but the lacerations to her clitoris, labia minora and majora… they've not only _not_ healed, but I'd say they've been frequently re-opened since they were first inflicted."

"They weren't just re-inflicted during tonight's attack?" Olivia asked.

The doctor shook her head. "Like I said, if that were the case, I would still be able to see evidence of new tissue growth and healing, and I don't. In fact, some of the larger unhealed lacerations look to be infected, leading me to suspect they haven't just not been properly cared for but have been exacerbated," she sighed. "Sexual intercourse would have been excruciating for her."

"Surely _that_ suggests something," Elliot turned to Olivia. "I mean, who willingly inflicts that kind of pain on themselves? How many rape victims do we see engaging in consensual sexual activity this far out from their assault? It had to have been forced."

Olivia turned the question over to the doctor. "Is there anything else that could cause that?"

The doctor shrugged. "Aside from sexual activity?" she burrowed. "It's not uncommon for rape victims to clean themselves obsessively and I suppose that could account for it. But masturbation or the simple act of touching oneself are also possibilities that shouldn't be ruled out."

Elliot turned to the doctor once again. "So you're saying _some _of the evidence points to rape, but what you're seeing could have been caused by anything from sex to showering?"

"The evidence points to a multitude of conclusions."

He was close to crossing a line as he stepped forward and raised his voice. "Well then, in your professional _opinion_, was Audrey Middleton raped or wasn't she?"

"El?" Olivia rested a hand on his arm, and he backed off.

However, the doctor didn't seem perturbed. She thought for a moment before shaking her head slowly. "I'm sorry, Detectives. I just don't know."

As the doctor walked away down the hall, Olivia sat dumbfounded. "So what do we know?" she asked. "Audrey had sex; that much is undeniable. It was rough enough to cause some mild bruising but not to the extent that it's conclusive it was rape. Her external injuries show evidence of never being given a chance to heal… ."

"Could she have been victimized all along?" Elliot knew he was reaching with this one. "Someone in her building who knows her schedule, maybe has a chance to see her daily. A power-assurance rapist who is gentle and considerate with her?"

"Elliot, she's been in almost constant contact with you since it happened. You'd think she would have said something," she shook her head. "Maybe she has a boyfriend."

"Maybe she was too scared to talk."

"Maybe it's not rape at all. Maybe she had consensual sex with someone, but twisted it in her mind into something it wasn't."

"That doesn't make sense."

"El," Olivia soothed. "I know you want to believe her. But we have to be open to the possibility that Audrey is a confused, frightened victim who made a mistake. We won't know until we talk to her."

Elliot blew out the breath he'd been holding onto and crossed his arms again. "Did you call Huang?"

"He said he'll meet us at the precinct."

"If we can get Audrey to agree to come back with us… ."

At that moment, a nurse walked out of Audrey's room, interrupting their conversation. "You can talk to her now, but don't take too long. We need the room."

For a moment, neither of them moved. They were standing on the threshold of the hospital room, armed with information that made them question the veracity of the claim their victim had made, and for the first time, they didn't know how to proceed. After days of supporting Audrey through the tortuous process of confronting her rapist, they wanted nothing more than for her story to be true. But they knew what she said could change the light in which the evidence had been presented to them.

Stepping into that room could change everything.

Elliot cleared his throat. "Ladies first," he offered.

"She was asking for you."

It was unlike them to be so reticent; Elliot was ashamed. He shuffled his feet and took a deep breath, then quickly strode through the door.

_Like a bandaid_, he told himself.

They approached Audrey's bed; she sat at the end, her legs dangling over the edge. Her clothes and jewelry had been tagged and sat in sealed evidence bags on the bed behind her. The clothes she wore were hospital issued - a pair of nondescript grey sweatpants, a loose fitting long-sleeved white undershirt, and a grey hooded sweater that seemed to match the pants. Her shoes had been given back to her, their once shiny patent leather now scuffed and pitted from the wear of the day.

Elliot came around the foot of the bed, coming to stand slightly off to her side. "Hi Audrey," he said.

She barely acknowledged his presence.

Olivia knelt in front of her and checked her pupils. "She's still out of it," she responded, her voice barely above a whisper. "I can't believe they cleared her to go home."

Elliot turned his attention to Audrey. "Audrey, honey, do you know where you are?"

Audrey glanced around her. "A hospital?"

"That's right," Olivia nodded. "St Vincent's."

Audrey closed her eyes. "I was at home," she said.

"Do remember talking to us at the station?" Elliot asked.

"Not really," she replied. "I remember being at home."

Olivia went with it. "Was there anybody else with you?"

Her face registered her confusion. "I think it was Jack," she said.

"Jack Levy?" Elliot asked.

"I think so," she said. "He's my boss. How do you know him?"

Olivia's eyes shot up; she leaned over again. "Audrey, was he the one who raped you?"

Audrey shook her head. "Can I go home now?"

Elliot put a hand on her shoulder but Audrey jerked away. "Please, I just want to go home."

"We can't let her go by herself," Olivia said, flipping open her cellphone. "Her apartment is a crime scene."

Elliot covered a reassuring hand over Audrey's. "We'll find you a place to stay tonight. For now, we'll stay with you."

Olivia pressed the phone to her ear and began talking to Fin on the other end, giving instructions to secure Audrey's apartment.

Audrey fastened her attention on Olivia for a long moment before turning back to Elliot. "Okay," she whispered.

Audrey braced her hands on the end of the bed and shuffled forward. Elliot hooked a hand under her elbow to help her down.

Olivia pulled her phone away from her ear. "They got thirteen hits for Jack Levy," she said.

"Just look for the one who works in web design," Elliot replied.

"Did you catch that?" Olivia asked Fin. "Yeah, the guy's her boss… ."

Elliot's stomach twisted inside out as he wrapped an arm around Audrey's back and escorted her from the room.


	15. Say What You Mean

**May 24**

**11 pm**

"_He pushed me to the ground… pulled himself on top of me… I couldn't move… ."_

The voice coming from the tape player was small, quiet, but her words were powerfully disturbing. Elliot stopped the tape and placed his hands flat against the table, one on either side of the two cassette players in front of him and pressed his fingertips into the tabletop, hard, in an effort to prevent his hand from balling into fists and smashing through the table altogether.

Closing his eyes, he willed his body to reject the delicious sleep he craved, cracked his neck, and focused on the control buttons in front of him. He pressed fast-forward on the second tape, and barely noticed the knock at the door or Olivia walking in.

She shut the door behind her with a soft 'click.' "Munch and Fin just called," she said, handing Elliot a mug of coffee before sitting down across from him. "CSU combed Audrey's place, recovered a few fibres, collected some evidence from her bedsheets and a couple of wine glasses they thought they could lift DNA from."

Elliot nodded. "What about Levy?"

"Nothing. No phone bill, no cable, no utilities in his name, not even a parking ticketl" Olivia said. "The closest thing they found to was a post office box that he rented using the address for his office."

Elliot sighed and pressed his lips into a thin, straight line.

"There's an APB out," she continued softly, "Munch and Fin are staking out the office building."

He rubbed his temples. "How's Audrey?"

"She's in with Huang," Olivia said. "Victims Services is on their way over. They'll take her to a shelter until she can be set up in more permanent housing."

Elliot continued to fiddle with the controls on the tape deck.

Olivia took a sip from her coffee cup, "What are you doing?"

"Hm? Oh…," He pressed 'Play' on the tape, listened for a moment, and then continued to fast-forward it. "Going over her statement," he said.

Olivia had been listening, "Her statement from last week?"

Stonefaced, he stopped the fast-forwarding, pressed 'Play' again, shook his head, and continued to fast-forward. "Something's bothering me about the whole thing."

"What is it?"

Elliot continued to skip ahead for a moment before stopping the player. "Listen to the way she described the first time Donovan attacked her… ."

He pressed 'Play' on the tape recorder on the right. The crackle and hiss of the tape filled the room for a moment before Audrey's voice could be heard.

"_He pulled me to the ground… pushed himself on top of me… I couldn't move, but I was still trying to get away from him… he tore my t-shirt and pulled my pajama shorts down…"_

After a long pause, Olivia's voice could be heard next: _"What happened then?"_

"_He told me that he likes a girl who fights back… then he used his knee to… force… m-my legs apart… and I felt him pushing into me… I didn't want to stop fighting… ."_

Elliot stopped the tape. "She uses words like 'fight,' 'push,' 'pull,' 'force.' Those are pretty active words," he paused, searching for a better adjective: "_Violent_ words."

Olivia narrowed her eyes at him, trying to follow his logic. "Yes, and—?"

"Listen to the way she described the attack tonight," he said, cueing up the tape on the left and pressing 'Play.'

"_He laid on top of me, on the bed… touching me everywhere… and when we started having sex—."_

Elliot stopped the tape. "'Laid on top of me,' and 'Touching me,' and 'Having sex,'" he trailed off. "I'm no expert or anything, but the implication, the connotation. It's different, isn't it?"

"I suppose her statement is more passive tonight, but you and I both know she's distraught."

Elliot sighed. "All things being equal?"

Olivia pursed her lips. "All things being equal…?" Olivia paused, thinking about it. "I guess having sex implies some kind of an understanding about the act itself," Olivia said. "Donovan 'pushed into her' but Jack started 'having sex… .'"

Elliot and Olivia looked at one another and back to the tape decks.

"We need to find Jack Levy," Olivia said.


	16. Talk to the Doc

**May 24**

**11:33 pm**

Dr. George Huang stepped into Cragen's office and shut the door behind him.

"What's up, Doc?" Cragen asked.

Huang nodded and sighed. "Audrey is exhibiting a rather atypical case of rape-trauma syndrome."

"Rape trauma syndrome?" Olivia asked.

"We don't encounter it that often in our line of work because it usually takes weeks to manifest, and by the time it does, we're not in the picture anymore."

"I've never even heard of it," Cragen admitted.

"Well it's not included in the DSM as such, but rather falls under the category of post-traumatic stress disorder. So while most survivors experience at least some of the symptoms, it's usually diagnosed under the umbrella of PTSD," Huang said. "But there are unique symptoms, requiring unique treatments, and I think it should be properly classified in order for rape survivors to receive those treatments."

"What kind of symptoms?" asked Olivia.

Huang nodded. "I say Audrey's case is atypical because she's progressed through the first stages rather quickly. Her sensory functions are dulled—hearing, taste, feeling—and her thoughts are disorganized. She's self-reporting an obsession with showering and she's alternately hysterical or confused, but rarely in control of her emotions. Several times during the interview, she asked me if I was mad at her, indicating an acute sensitivity to the reactions of others."

"These are all symptoms?" Elliot asked.

"Exactly," Huang said. "But she's progressing through the stages at breakneck speed. In fact, she moved through four of the five coping strategies identified by the Rape Abuse and Incest National Network, all within a forty-five minute period just now—minimization, where everything was 'fine;' dramatization, in which she wouldn't stop talking about her assault; suppression, when she shut down and wouldn't talk about the assault at all; and explanation, where she tried to analyze everything in an effort to understand what had happened and why."

Elliot narrowed his eyes. "What does that mean for her?"

"Well. I don't think she's coping as well as she thinks," Huang offered. "She's suffering from extreme insomnia, inappetance, anxiety, hyper-vigilance, and she is, for the most part, housebound. That in itself would be cause for major concern, because she lives in the very spot where she was first victimized. Combined with everything else—."

"Is she a threat to herself?" Elliot asked.

"Psychologically? Absolutely. Given enough time, and without treatment, she could start taking physical risks. We all know that re-victimization is high among this segment of the populace. Audrey goes one step beyond that—she's compelled to repeat her trauma on a regular basis by indulging in fantasies and daydreams about her assault. That she's doing it ten feet from the very spot of the initial attack is more than a little troubling."

"How do you know all this?" Olivia asked.

"I induced a hypnotic state to root out some of the disturbing mental images she claimed to be suffering from, to try and identify a treatment course. During this portion of the session, I discovered that she's experiencing...hypersexual tendencies."

Three sets of eyes stared blankly at Huang. He took a deep breath.

"We know that it's far more common for rape victims to disengage from sex entirely, but some do the opposite and actively seek it out. Most theories suggest it's a way to gain control after having it taken away from them so violently. It's more likely to occur in victims who reached orgasm during an assault; they feel their bodies have betrayed them, and it heightens the sense of losing control. They can engage in certain behaviours to try and regain control. I believe this to be the case with Audrey. She told me she feels compelled to self-stimulate when she has flashbacks of her attack, but has not been able to bring herself to orgasm without increasing frequency and method, sometimes to the point of self-harm."

Olivia looked at Elliot. "The doctor at the hospital told us about injuries from the previous assault that hadn't begun healing yet."

Huang nodded slowly. "Audrey is not only severely traumatized, but she's escalating in behaviour in order to both replace the pain she feels with something else and regain control," he said. "She needs intense, regular psychological counselling, and she needs it now."

Olivia sighed. "Is it possible the rape allegation is false?"

Huang gave a slow, conciliatory shrug of his shoulders. "There's no reason why it _couldn't _have happened the way she said it did. But it's not outside the realm of possibility—she seeks out a partner, has consensual intercourse, it's an unpleasant or frightening experience for her, and she mislabels it rape after the fact as a way of codifying it in a way that makes sense," Huang said. "But not believing her now would most certainly cause further trauma."

"Why would she make it up?" Elliot asked.

Huang considered. "Confusion, traumatization, fear of being judged or feeling shame for what she may very well believe is inappropriate behaviour. Also, it could be that she's fallen into a role that she can control, that brings her stability, a feeling of peace, and since it's one of the few things she _can _control, she may be hesitant about giving it up. Being a victim can be very comforting. With the end of the trial and her chapter in this story coming to a close today, it might have tipped her over the edge."

Cragen interjected. "We really need to find this Levy guy, get his side of the story. If she made a false accusation, that's serious business."

"Munch and Fin are out looking for him now," Olivia said.

Elliot crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head. "We could be looking at this the wrong way. If we're gonna bring him in as anything other than a rape suspect, what we're doing is no better than blaming the victim. Huang said it: not believing her is the wrong way to go."

"Elliot's right," Huang retorted. "And it's important to remember that, in her state of mind, she may not even see what she's done as a crime."

Cragen addressed Huang first. "I have no interest in bringing charges against a traumatized vic, but—," he turned to Elliot, "Every false allegation makes it that much harder for us to do our jobs when a real case presents itself. We need Jack Levy because he was there. Whether he committed a crime there or not, we need to talk to him."

His tone was sombre and the room responded appropriately.

"Look," Cragen continued, rubbing his eyes. "It's been a long day, for all of us. Go home. Rest up. If Levy comes in before we regroup tomorrow morning, you can be sure you'll hear about it."

Everyone stood up, readying to leave. But before Elliot made it to the door, Huang got his attention.

"Can I talk to you?" he asked.

"Sure."

"In private?"

Elliot glanced around and nodded toward the conference room.


End file.
